


Committed to Memory

by Adaire (AlaeFatorum)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimson Flower Spoilers, Ferdinand von Aegir's terrible no good very bad time, Hubert's in love with Ferdinand but Ferdinand doesn't remember, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Post-Crimson Flower, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Set after the end of the war, Unreliable Narrator, angst that will eventually have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 52,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaeFatorum/pseuds/Adaire
Summary: Ferdinand did not remember falling from his horse. In fact, he was quickly discovering he did not remember a great many things.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 278
Kudos: 505





	1. A Familiar, Unfamiliar Place

He didn’t remember falling from his horse.

It didn’t sound like him, really. He hadn’t fallen from a horse to any great injury since he was a boy—in fact, if he had been forced to pick something that he was well and truly _good_ at (though he claimed to be good at a great many things), it would have been horseback riding, and he was practiced at falling with (what he would have described as) grace. He considered himself an equestrian, no matter how much his father had tried to dissuade him from the pastime, particularly after an incident in which he had broken his arm. He could recall clearly the distaste his father had held for it; horses were “filthy, needy beasts,” he could hear him saying. He considered them to be far too much work and of far too little importance; the amount of effort needed was befitting only of servants—not of nobles, and particularly not of von Aegirs. Not once, he was certain, had his father ever learned the name of even one of his son’s beloved horses.

Ferdinand von Aegir could remember those lectures—along with many others—very clearly.

Other things, he found, he was quite uncertain of.

Namely, he could not at the moment discern how he had managed to wind up in Enbarr. He recognized the room he was in as the Prime Minister’s quarters, but not because he had ever slept here himself (he recalled easily a night where, as a child, he had suffered a nightmare during a particularly frightening thunderstorm, and had sought out his father for comfort. He had been given one quick pat on the shoulder and sent promptly back to bed). He could scarcely explain why he was in the room—he was quite certain his father would never have allowed it, if he knew—and he wondered very much at what point during his son’s time away from Enbarr his father had decided to redecorate so drastically.

There had been someone in the room when he’d awoken. She had been standing at the desk on the opposite side, sifting through paperwork. When she turned around after hearing him stir, he was quite certain he had never met her before—he tried his very best to commit as many names and faces to memory as possible—though she certainly seemed to know him. Ferdinand supposed that was not unusual—he was rather recognizable.

“Oh,” she had exclaimed. “You’re awake.”

Much to his chagrin, he had only managed to blink at her. He had felt—and still felt—rather out of sorts.

“What… what happened?” He had asked. His voice felt foreign to his own ears—somehow deeper, smoother, perhaps possessing a warmer timbre—but he ultimately dismissed it as a result of whatever had left him bedridden.

“You fell from your horse, my lord. You’ve been asleep for nearly two weeks, you know.”

He could not help but gape, the action not so much at her as simply a reflection of his own feelings. Two entire _weeks?_ He would be so behind in his work! Certainly far, far behind Edelgard, to say the least. The amount of effort required to even come close to catching up on his duties would be immense; he hardly had a moment to waste. Every moment spent inactive was one in which he was falling more and more behind—  


“Oh!” The sound was surprised, as if the woman had just remembered something of the utmost importance. “The Marquis will want to know immediately! He had to step out for a moment—you know how his work is—but I’m sure he’ll come running once he’s heard you’ve awoken. I’ll just—I’ll be right back! Don’t go anywhere!”

And then she was gone. Ferdinand could not help but feel a little… lost. Who was the Marquis? He knew of several, but the only one he was acquainted with in Adrestia was Marquis Vestra. While he had met the man many times, however, he would hardly have described them as “close.” Was his father otherwise indisposed?

Even then, the Marquis and his father had rarely seen eye-to-eye. Despite Marquis Vestra’s support during the Insurrection of the Seven, their relationship had been adversarial at the least—hostile at the worst. He highly doubted the man would be willing to do any sort of favor for his father unless he had been given no choice.

The more he tried to make sense of the situation and the facts he had been given, the more his head hurt. He decided to put that aside and examine his surroundings, instead.  
He willed himself through the pain as he sat up slowly, though he could not muffle the wince in pain he produced as he did so. He persevered, however, and looked around the room, experiencing something akin to awe. It was so different from the stuffy, lavish room of his memory, he nearly did not recognize it.

It was not _unimpressive,_ in fairness, but it was not the gaudy, intimidating space it used to be. Much of the furniture had been shifted or removed entirely—the armoire and standing mirror had been relocated, the desk was most certainly of a different style, now (though it was difficult to examine it in its entirety on account of the paperwork littering its surface), and a simple table and matching chairs rather perfect for tea time had been added to the space before the room’s large windows, which were themselves now dressed in new drapes on either side. On the table sat a beautiful, ornate tea set he did not recognize, but it was entirely likely that his father had many possessions he had never seen before. He found that the bedding and comforter he was currently buried beneath had been altered, too; the coloration remained Imperial crimson and gold, but it was simpler, neater, in design. The handful of paintings that adorned the walls were all changed save one—his personal favorite of his father’s collection: a striking rendition of Enbarr’s opera house.

But though the room was changed, the view the massive windows provided certainly was not. It was a view that he would recognize anywhere. As much as he had loved House Aegir’s lands and cared for its people, his true home, Enbarr, was in the midst of a beautifully sunny day, with only a handful of patchy clouds dotting the sky.

 _A perfect day for a ride,_ he thought, grimacing. He rubbed absently at his eyes as he shifted his focus away from the window. There was a nightstand to his left, and one of the tea table’s chairs had been pulled to his bedside. He could not help but feel some manner of pang in his heart at the idea that someone had been concerned enough to watch over him as he’d slept.

On the nightstand sat some type of intricate-looking paperwork and an accompanying quill that had been seemingly abandoned partway through the task. Beside it was a similarly abandoned mug. Out of sheer curiosity—and perhaps only slightly on account of his parched throat—he reached out for it.  
Whatever it was, he thought sadly, it was certainly not tea. He brought it to his face and sniffed before recoiling, his nose scrunching up in disgust. Coffee? Who on earth was drinking coffee by his bedside?

He was not desperate enough to drink coffee—especially not _cold_ coffee—so he returned it to its place, only mildly disappointed, before flopping back down against his pillow. It was an action he immediately regretted, gasping in pain. He attempted to examine his injuries, but ended up noting instead that he was dressed in simple clothing—a rather low-cut, loose-fitting white shirt and britches that matched.

Something felt odd, but Ferdinand found he could hardly focus on it; he felt anxious, possibly bored, and he suddenly wished very much that he were not alone.  
It was fine; he could be patient. Someone was bound to return to check on him eventually. Surely they had not forgotten him. It had only been a few moments, and somebody had already gone to the effort of pulling up a chair.

“Thank you for informing me, Fleche. Will you be able to take care of what we discussed earlier on your own?”

Ferdinand perked up at the sound of voices, adjusting his position on the bed.

“Of course, sir. I’ll be certain to record every detail.”

“You know that you have my utmost confidence.”

 _Strange,_ Ferdinand thought. _How clandestine they sound._ But surely they knew that he could hear them? He recognized the woman’s voice from earlier, and the other one—presumably “the Marquis”—bordered on the cusp of familiarity. It was not quite right, but it almost sounded like—  


“… Ferdinand?” the voice asked, closer this time, and its owner appeared in the doorway.

Ferdinand almost did not believe his eyes.

He had always resembled his father rather strongly, to be sure, but the man who approached him now was certainly not the Marquis Vestra.

_“Hubert?”_

He knew his voice betrayed his bewilderment.

“I’m so glad to see you awake,” the other man said, and—much to his confusion—Ferdinand nearly believed him. “I dislike saying it out loud, but you had me extremely worried. The injury you sustained was quite substantial. Did Fleche inform you that you were unconscious for nearly two weeks? Linhardt told us it could have potentially been even more. And before you panic, Her Majesty and I have taken care of your work. We lack your touch, of course, but I believe you’ll actually be quite pleased.”  


He took a seat in the chair by the bed.

“I did tell Her Majesty that I could manage it on my own, of course, but she insisted. You know how she can be.” He reached for the cup of coffee and, finding it cold, returned it with distaste.  


And then he focused his piercing gaze on Ferdinand, brow furrowing curiously. As if he had any right to be confused.  


“… Ferdinand? You’re being rather quiet.” Hubert was becoming more concerned by the second. His face, much more striking now, perhaps even _handsome,_ presented the most emotion that Ferdinand had ever seen on it—exceeded only by an instance of dagger-sharp, inexplicable anger that Hubert had directed at him exactly once when they were children.  
“Are you feeling all right? Do I need to call for Linhardt?”  


“H-Hubert,” he managed, before taking a moment to compose himself. It was unbecoming to allow his voice to quiver in such a way. “When did you cut your hair?”

There were no other words for it. Hubert von Vestra’s expression _fell._ His eyes widened, his mouth fell slightly agape, and he produced not a sound, as if he did not know what to say. Ferdinand found the expression did not suit him, regardless of how different Hubert's face had become, and he intensely disliked that it was directed at him.

“Years ago,” he answered, quietly, as if he were suddenly not sure of it himself. “Ferdinand…”

It was as if the floodgates had opened, then.

“That does not make any sense, Hubert. Why… Why am I in Enbarr? I—I was at Garreg Mach, and we—the ball was coming up soon, and—Where is my father? Is he busy?” His words were coming faster, were more panicked—no, he was not panicking. There was nothing to panic about, and panic was decidedly not befitting a noble. He took a breath. Then another. “Why am I in his room? Is he all right? Why has it been redecorated? How did I—How did I fall from my horse? I don’t—I do not remember falling from my horse, Hubert. And why are you _here,_ Hubert? Did I do something? You—you _hate_ me, and I don’t—I do not understand why. Is this some type of joke? If so, I do not understand the punchline, and—You look so different, and you sound different, like you're _older,_ and I’m—I am so… confused.”

Hubert’s face did nothing to assuage his newfound fears.  


_“Hubert?”_ he pleaded. His voice was beginning to sound desperate to his own ears.

“Ferdinand,” he said, finally. It was still quiet, but it was slow, and sincere, a sound that was entirely foreign to Ferdinand’s ears. “It has been over six years since the Officer’s Academy.”

Ferdinand could hardly breathe. His tried to open his mouth to speak, but found it was unbearably dry. Hubert did not seem to be faring much better.  


“We danced together, at the ball,” Hubert whispered, as though he were speaking to himself rather than someone else. “We fought a war together. You do not remember?”

Six years? _Six years?_ That would make him twenty-four. Twenty-four. Why couldn’t he remember?

He scrambled to get out of the bed, then, tossing the sheets aside. He felt dizzy, impossibly dizzy. His feet hit the floor and he nearly fell, the muscles unprepared and out of practice. He gripped the bedpost to steady himself, his knuckles white and hands shaking until he could force the resolve to make it to the mirror. He leaned on the desk for support as he attempted to examine himself. His outfit was a far cry from the uniform of the Officer’s Academy he had grown so accustomed to as of late. His face was thinner, weathered, more chiseled—older. There was a bandage wrapped around his head that he touched with heavily calloused fingers. In the process—which was _not_ panic—he discovered copper hair, well over a foot in length, that had been tied carefully behind his head.  


Ferdinand von Aegir blinked away tears. He could hardly stop blinking, in fact. If Hubert was still speaking from his place on the chair, Ferdinand could not hear him, the sound reduced to nothing more than a low buzzing. He was not missing two weeks—he was missing _six years._ He was not breathing properly. His ears were ringing.

Hubert hadn’t answered any of his questions. Why? Why was he shaking? Why was Hubert so shell-shocked? He was not the one missing six years of his life. Why was he even here? As much as Ferdinand had tried, Hubert had always despised him, had always found him an annoyance beyond compare. Ferdinand had given into it eventually, had resorted to reciprocating the vitriol, but what had changed? Had he mentioned a war? Was that some kind of metaphor? Why was this man seated beside his bed? He could still see him, still seated, still facing away from him, in the reflection of the mirror.

He heard what Hubert von Vestra said next with startling clarity, his voice laced with desperation.

“… I love you.”  


Ferdinand fainted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my very good friend Lily, who gave me this prompt and let me run with it! I'm hoping to continue this and add more chapters, but I am a notoriously slow writer. 
> 
> You can find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) I don't post very often, but I retweet a lot of Three Houses!


	2. Did You Mean It?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert attempts to answer Ferdinand's questions. Ferdinand finds that he has never enjoyed puzzles with only one solution.

When his eyes blinked open again, Ferdinand was faced with much of the same scene, and only slightly less confusion. He was still definitively in the Prime Minister’s quarters, and he had been returned to the bed. Now, however, what had originally been instances of isolated pain had blossomed into a dull, ever-present headache.

“Ferdinand.” The voice came from his left; the tone could have almost been described as gentle.

Oh. Right.

“Please don’t do that again. You—”

“Hubert. I demand to know exactly what is happening. I cannot possibly have—”

 _“Ferdinand.”_ This was far less gentle, but far more familiar. Perhaps the man beside him was still Hubert, after all. “Please just listen to me for a moment. Ask what you will afterwards.”

He huffed and contemplated talking back again, to return to what would have constituted their old repertoire, but, after considering the circumstances, perhaps it made sense for the one who allegedly knew the details of the last six years of Ferdinand’s life to speak first. Ultimately, he settled for pressing his lips together and attempting to sit up.

It was a task more easily considered than accomplished, but with minimal shooting pains, some amount of assistance from Hubert, and no less than two pillows, Ferdinand had managed to rest—almost comfortably—upright against the bed’s headboard.

“You are in Enbarr,” Hubert began, his voice level, “because you live here, and have since the end of the War of the Crimson Flower, which was nearly one year ago, now. We attended the Garreg Mach Officers’ Academy six years ago. Your father, the former Duke Aegir and Prime Minister of Adrestia, is currently imprisoned in the city for the crime of treason. I will not stop you from calling on him if you so desire, but I would not recommend it.”

These circumstances were baffling, certainly, but Ferdinand found that where his father was concerned, he was not entirely surprised, nor was he particularly outraged. And since when had Hubert ever been one to provide sensible advice?

Ferdinand opened his mouth to speak; Hubert shot him a pointed look, raising a thin eyebrow, as if daring him to interrupt. For the first time in his life (that he could remember), Ferdinand did not interject. Instead, he closed his mouth, his lips forming a small frown, instead.

“You are currently in the Prime Minister’s quarters because, as the Prime Minister of Fódlan, it is _your_ room. You decorated it as you saw fit, as far as I am aware. You have attempted to solicit my opinion on it several times, but I have neglected to provide it, though I believe you’ve consulted with Dorothea, as well. My sense of style has always been somewhat lacking.”

Dorothea Arnault. Another of his classmates that had hated him—enough so that she had told him such plainly to his face. He felt—not entirely willingly—his frown deepen and brow furrow. What, exactly, was Hubert attempting to inform him of, here? This information was sparse and scattered, at best. His choice of décor—though it was, he thought, glancing around the room again, impeccable—could hardly have been a highlight of the past six years.

But still, Ferdinand remained quiet.

“As for what happened, you were on a diplomatic mission to Derdriu—organizing and finalizing potential trade routes, I believe. You were beset upon while on the road. The members of your escort were either slaughtered or have seemingly disappeared entirely. You were not found until some time later, suffering the injuries you are sporting now. According to those who found you, you appeared to have fallen from your horse in the scuffle, and they suspect that the assailants were simply a random group of marauding bandits.”

Ferdinand had been fixing his gaze on the view of Enbarr that the windows provided, attempting to keep his breaths slow and steady amidst such an influx of information. For every sentence, every scrap of detail that was provided, Ferdinand had five hundred new questions racing through his muddied mind. It felt like an elaborate puzzle with the simplest of solutions—but no matter how he tried, he could not reach the end.

At this newest tidbit, however, Ferdinand turned to fix his eyes on Hubert’s face.

The man clearly hadn’t been sleeping well—though Ferdinand was not sure he ever had—if the bags that framed his lamplight-colored eyes (or eye, depending on where his hair decided to fall) were any indication. His face was thinner and more worn than Ferdinand remembered; whatever had happened—was still happening—these past six years, it had clearly continued to take its toll on him. But with his hair styled, cropped shorter, and with a neat, crisp new uniform that suited him much better than that of the Officers’ Academy, Ferdinand could not help but note—perhaps even admire—just how _professional_ he looked. How even, how measured. How intimidating.

But even with a six-year gap, Ferdinand knew Hubert. The man was different, to be certain, but he was hardly unrecognizable. Ferdinand knew his tone of voice. He understood most of his expressions—though some of them he had never seen directed at him before. And he could hear the palpable distaste with which he had spoken his last sentence. Whatever had happened to Ferdinand on the road, Hubert was not fully satisfied with the explanation.

Ferdinand met Hubert’s gaze, and he spoke.

“Do you believe them?”

This gave Hubert pause, but he did not seem angry with the question—or, at least, not with Ferdinand for asking it. Perhaps he knew something he didn’t wish to say? Perhaps he did not trust him?

Why would that be?

It was a pointless question to ask, truthfully. Ferdinand found that he was treading water far, far from shore, dependent entirely on someone else sending him a rescue party. He was unlikely to offer anything of use. He would be lucky if he could even manage to keep himself from drowning.

Hubert watched him for a moment, as if he were attempting to determine something. When he deigned to respond, Ferdinand was uncertain of the conclusion he had reached.

“I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “I have no reason to suspect that’s not exactly what happened.”

Ferdinand was now quite certain it was a topic Hubert no longer wished to discuss. As much as he wished to poke, to prod, to discern the reasons for his suspicions, Hubert von Vestra was not one to offer up any information he was not willing to part with. The only thing Ferdinand could achieve here, he imagined, was testing Hubert’s patience—and thus, he let the conversation lull until Hubert decided to continue.

“As for your other questions. I am here because I was waiting for you to wake up, naturally. Despite our history of rivalry, we have become… friends, over the years.” Hubert’s eyes shifted, then, to what was apparently a very interesting spot on the floor. “You’ve done nothing wrong as far as I am aware. And if this is a joke, then I wish that whomever is telling it was aware that I am not a fan of surprises. I am also quite certain that their budding career in _comedy_ is doomed to fail.”

Ferdinand felt a hint of a smile cross his face, at that. Hubert straightened his posture in the chair, neatly crossing one leg over the other.

“I believe those are the answers to all of your questions.”

Ferdinand lifted his eyebrows. That was the pattern of information, then: the answers to what he had asked in his fit of panic (loathe as he was to finally describe it as such). Perhaps, were he feeling more himself—and a bit less lost—he would have realized sooner.

“I have more questions.” He pulled his attention away from Hubert to instead examine himself once again, this time with a bit more care. He was more built than he remembered, his rather boyish litheness partially replaced with muscles that could only have been earned through action even more rigorous than that which he had practiced at the Academy. Where his skin was concerned, he could only really see his arms, but even there he noticed scars he did not recognize—though most of them were old enough to have already begun to fade.

“I know,” Hubert said.

Ferdinand aimlessly ran fingers across the ends of his hair, which had come loose at some point—likely in the _panic_ —and now draped over his chest and back in a manner that was in and of itself rather shocking. He had kept his hair short for as long as he could remember—he had not even known that he possessed hair capable of waves and curls. What had caused him to consider such a drastic change? He did not think he disliked it; he was simply surprised.

His mind began to run through the other things he recalled Hubert mentioning.

“Will you answer them?”

He felt Hubert’s frown more than he saw it.

“I will try.”

His thoughts were alight with questions. What was the war Hubert had mentioned? What had happened during the rest of their time at Garreg Mach? Hubert had spoken of “Her Majesty”—sure that referred to Edelgard, yes? What types of _bandits_ would have dared to attack him on the road? How had he been overpowered? How had he been the only one to survive? What had become of his horse?

Had Hubert said he was the Prime Minister of _Fódlan?_

But even with all of this, he was drawn to something else.

“You said that you loved me.” He spoke before he had truly thought the statement through; he wished he had the sense to regret it.

He had heard Hubert say it—or so he hoped. If he had imagined it—perhaps in a dream while he was unconscious—then it was entirely possible that more than just his memory was about to be brought into question.

Hubert’s eyes widened. His face flushed. He took a noticeable breath.

Ferdinand had not invented it, then.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

… And Hubert had not anticipated this question.

“Did you mean it?” Ferdinand did not take his eyes from Hubert’s face. Hubert had said they had become friends. He wondered if that was an accurate descriptor.

The answer did not take as long as Ferdinand had anticipated.

“Yes.”

His voice was airy, wistful, quivering. But not uncertain.

Ferdinand wished he knew how to respond to that. It would have been a lie for him to say he had never wished that Hubert would regard him as something more than an annoyance, a waste of space, a pompous brat. Even at the Academy, he had wished that maybe he would notice him. His talents. His hard work. That he would praise him for it, just once. That he would perhaps even admire him for it.

They had been friends, when they were children—or so Ferdinand had believed. Something had changed, at some point (or perhaps Hubert had simply grown tired of tolerating him), and their relationship had instead become one of dislike, distrust, and thinly veiled apprehension. They argued constantly. They could hardly look at one another without slinging some new form of insult. 

Clearly, something had changed again.

Six years was a long time. A relationship could change innumerable times in that span. If they had become friends—if they had become _more_ than friends—then to suddenly lose that, to regress to a state of petty hatred… it would be devastating, wouldn’t it?

Ferdinand took deep breaths, then, and tears began to well in his eyes. He attempted—again—to blink them away. How pathetic and helpless he must have looked already: bedridden, injured, and confused. He could not afford to look even weaker. But he had to know.

“Would you still mean it?” he asked.

There was a long, terrifying pause as they studied each other. Of course Hubert could not be expected to treat him in the same manner he had two weeks ago—no, perhaps only hours ago, when his voice had been calm, relieved, casual. Loving. Before he had known that this Ferdinand was not _his_ Ferdinand. Ferdinand suspected he knew now just what had been taken away from him with one simple accident.

Hubert could not be expected to love someone he had not loved six years ago. There was little Ferdinand could do to stop the tear that rolled down his cheek.

Hubert was in front of him, then, resting on the edge of the bed that, in all likelihood, they had perhaps shared only a few weeks ago. It was a strange thought, imagining that kind of intimacy. He reached out with a gloved hand—he still wore the gloves, then—and brushed a strand of hair from Ferdinand’s face, his thumb wiping at the tear in the process. His hand framed Ferdinand’s face as he leaned forwards, close, impossibly close, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The gesture was so tender, so light, that Ferdinand would have once thought it entirely impossible.

“Yes, I would.”

The words made his heart flutter, and additional tears followed the first.

And yet, even now, Ferdinand could not shake the feeling that Hubert was keeping something from him. Ferdinand did not know if he simply held perfectly-justified reservations on being open with someone he now hardly recognized, or if there was something more to it. It was impossible to tell.

Hubert pulled back, though he remained perched on the bed. “But I would not want to make you uncomfortable.”

Ferdinand nodded, desperately attempting to sort out his feelings. He hardly felt _uncomfortable_ in Hubert’s presence, but this was an impossible situation. How much easier this would be if he could just _remember._

“I… I understand,” he said. “We will work something out.” Ferdinand tried to provide a smile, perhaps in an attempt to spark some amount of sorely needed hope. If Hubert had been concerned—afraid, even—that Ferdinand would hate him, then Ferdinand would simply have to reassure him that was not the case. He could recover what had been lost.

Ferdinand was breathing slightly easier, now. He brought his hands up to rub at the remaining tears and attempted to suppress, with little success, a rather unattractive sniffle. He was determined to get back on track.

“… Now, what was this about me being the Prime Minister? Please, spare absolutely no detail.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! I've never really done chapter pieces before, so I'm learning as I go along. Next chapter should feature appearances by more of the Black Eagles! 
> 
> Special thanks to my pals Lily and Alexz who are enabling me by continuing to discuss this, and also to everyone who left a sweet comment on the first chapter, because they did make me cry. :')
> 
> You can find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) I don't post very often, but I currently retweet a lot of Three Houses!


	3. Nothing That Tea Cannot Solve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand meets with an old friend, and he almost—almost—gets out of bed.

There were certain things that, Ferdinand was learning, he simply had to take at face value.

As it turned out, his alleged romance with Hubert hardly even made the list of unbelievable things he had apparently done. Hearing tales of his own choices, actions, and deeds was difficult to come to terms with, and he was increasingly beginning to feel as though he hardly knew himself. 

Siding against the Church of Seiros? Waging all-out war with the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus and the Leicester Alliance to unify Fódlan under the Empire’s rule? Slaying Lady Rhea, who was—

“A what?” 

“A dragon.” 

“Is there _proof?”_

Hubert had snorted at him. “None that is readily available. She’s dead.” 

Ferdinand had squinted at him in suspicion. “It is rude to lie to an ill man, Hubert von Vestra.”

“I am not lying.”

“… I was afraid you might say that.” 

They had killed her while Fhirdiad burned. Ferdinand could not recall a time he had ever been to Fhirdiad, though he had always wanted to visit. He supposed it was a very different place, now. 

He did not wish to consider how much blood had been needlessly shed in such a conflict—how much blood he had on his own hands. Ferdinand had never been one to shy away from combat, from conflict, but even he found that the idea made him uneasy. 

He could not bring himself to ask the details, and Hubert did not offer them. Ferdinand only knew that he had made the deliberate choice to stand with Edelgard hardly three months later than when his memories stopped. 

As it stood now, he found that… difficult to believe. Even more so in the light of the apparent removal of every facet of House Aegir’s power and the arrest of his father following Edelgard’s ascension to the throne. 

However, if Hubert were to be believed, Ferdinand had long since earned his place among Edelgard’s cabinet. He was a decorated general, a heeded advisor, a trusted confidant, and dear friend. The world that Edelgard had intended to build—was in the process of building—was a better one, free from the iron grip of the Church of Seiros, the crest system, and the nobility. He had chosen to side with her for a reason; he simply had to believe that reason was worth it. 

And regardless of where he was now, the journey there had been anything but easy. 

“I would like to see her,” Ferdinand said, apropos of nothing. Hubert was in the middle of informing him of Ferdinand’s own work as Prime Minister: his rebuilding efforts, his economic policies, his education proposals. The sun was getting lower, now, their discussion having comprised most of the afternoon.

Hubert was quick to respond. 

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.”

Ferdinand’s brow furrowed for what felt like the hundredth time that day. 

“Why? I thought you said that we were friends, and she has clearly done—” 

“I’m simply worried that you are not well enough, yet,” he responded, perhaps a little hastily for Ferdinand’s taste.

“Just,” Hubert began, likely realizing he had been rather harsh, “believe me when I say that you are very dear to Her Majesty, just as you are dear to me. But she is quite busy, as I’m sure you can imagine. And you _collapsed_ only a few hours ago. You likely need to rest.”

Ferdinand supposed that was… fair, though he did not like it. He wanted out of this bed, out of this room, to once again walk the streets of Enbarr—to explore and meet all of these people he had once felt so familiar with anew. 

“I do not _want_ to rest.”

“We have to do many things in life we do not want to, Ferdinand von Aegir.” 

Perhaps he was being a bit childish, to keep arguing like this. He decided he did not care. 

“No one else knows, do they? About my condition. That is why you do not want me outside.” It was only a guess, but Ferdinand imagined he was not far from the mark. 

“It would likely be prudent to inform anyone of consequence about the situation beforehand.” 

Ferdinand felt his spirits sink. A strange world had been lain before him, and he would have to learn how to navigate it. He had, at least, always been a quick study. 

“… But that does not make my previous point incorrect,” Hubert continued, “You do need to rest.”

Ferdinand groaned. It was, in hindsight, another rather immature move. 

“Don’t give me that, von Aegir. I’m being sincere.” 

Ferdinand sighed. “But think, Hubert! What if seeing Edelgard again jogs my memory? Or visiting the opera house? Or going for a horseback ride?” 

The last two may have been personal desires more than anything. He would not admit to it, however.

“You’re insufferable.”

“You cannot say that to me! I have suffered a tragic fate, and not even two hours ago, you promised that you still loved me!” 

“I did not say I didn’t love you. I said you were insufferable.”

“I do not want to be _patient,_ Hubert,” he whined. 

Hubert snorted; his annoyance was almost purely superficial. “Then I will make you a deal. If you promise to rest, I will have Linhardt visit you tomorrow. If he clears you, then you are free to go where you please.” 

Ferdinand suspected this “deal” would have been true regardless. His diplomatic efforts had thus far gained him nothing—after all, he had nothing to bargain with. He sincerely hoped that he had managed to be more persuasive in his role as Prime Minister. 

“Fine,” Ferdinand said. “But I want something in return.” He could spin Hubert’s newfound _sentimentality_ to his advantage, surely.

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Which is?” 

Ferdinand nearly said it, right then and there—he bit his lip, instead, his bravery faltering. Perhaps this would have been asking too much. 

Hubert’s eyebrows rose higher. “By all means, Ferdinand.”

“I would like,” he began, pausing to clear his throat. “… A pot of tea. It would be more proper to only ask for a cup, I know, but I feel as though the extenuating circumstances might justif—” 

“I would be more than happy to bring you tea, Ferdinand.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. Tea had always helped him calm his nerves.

“I will even try to find you some of those biscuits you so admire. As a gesture of good faith,” Hubert provided. 

He felt his face light up. He was absolutely famished. “Would you?” 

“I would. But only if you—”

“Yes, yes, I promise to _rest._ I will not go wandering the halls of the Imperial Palace bothering people. I promise.”

“I knew there was some part of you that could manage to be reasonable,” Hubert said, providing Ferdinand a wry smile. “You shall have your tea.”

“I very much look forward to it! You know it is quite difficult for me to trust you to select a suitable blend.” 

“Hmph.” And then, softer, “Thank you, Ferdinand. As you said, we will work something out. You need only be patient until tomorrow.”

And then he was gone, removing himself from the edge of the bed and departing the room with the flutter of a cape as black as night following his exit. He always had been so _dramatic,_ Ferdinand thought as Hubert shut the door behind him.

But while Ferdinand was looking forward to tea, and he was certain that Hubert had highly important work to do that did not involve him suffering unnecessary distractions (such as providing an encompassing story on the important events of the past six years), his exit from the room left Ferdinand entirely alone with himself. Even on the best of days at the Academy, he had never enjoyed the thoughts that accompanied a silent room.

Previously, he had always been drawn to considering his own failings; every inane, ignored comment, every missed question on a homework assignment, every conversation misunderstanding that he had foolishly walked into head-first—all personal failings he needed to rectify. Not once had been able to please his father—and now, he likely never would—by excelling in any area, by besting Edelgard at even one of her many talents, even by doing something as technically simple as settling on an acceptable marriage proposal. He was mocked for and dissuaded from his pastimes. Horseback riding was for practical purposes only—there was nothing worthwhile to be found in caring for the horses themselves, as he did. His love of tea made him snobbish and unapproachable. His hobby of armor collecting was a waste of time, and it ruthlessly flaunted his unearned wealth before the common folk. Fighting was dirty and ignoble—a true von Aegir needed only his words and his money to get his way. He had hardly been any good at singing, so why continue? 

The list could go on, of course, but he was running out of things he actually enjoyed. 

He was not even any good at making friends. Despite his best, constant efforts, he was apparently entirely incapable of not putting his foot in his mouth at every available opportunity. He was annoying, narcissistic, unempathetic, demanding, bossy, naïve, incompetent. And those were only some of the kinder ones he could remember hearing; he could only imagine what had been said out of earshot. He could count on one hand the number of people who could have been considered his friends, and it seemed likely that most only tolerated him out of pity, or he simply had not had enough time to drive them away yet. 

For all he knew, Mercedes and Lorenz were long dead by now. Perhaps even by his own hand. 

At least he knew for certain that Petra was still alive. 

She, however, did not even call Fódlan home.

These thoughts consumed him if he ever found a quiet moment at the Academy. They were still on his mind, now, except he now wondered how the current Ferdinand had ever managed to move past them. Would the others even still wish to be his friend, knowing he had suffered such a monumental setback?

He supposed they were likely different now, too, marred by the horrors of war. 

In spite of his earlier words, would Hubert grow tired of humoring him? Surely Hubert himself could not possibly know the answer to that; it would be strange of him to make a promise he could not be expected to keep. 

Still, he had tried to reassure him. About himself, as well as the others. Perhaps Ferdinand could have hope. 

With the sun now setting over Enbarr, Ferdinand suddenly found himself exhausted. Hubert would arrive with the tea soon, hopefully, but surely it would be all right to sink back into the comfort of the bed’s sheets and pillows for only a moment while he waited. He rolled over onto his side, bringing the comforter with him. 

He wanted the tea—truly, he did, and he found himself incredibly satisfied with his on-the-fly request. Asking for something as simple as tea was miles beyond the first ridiculous thought that had happened into his head.

_I would like for you to kiss me._

Ferdinand did not hear the door open several minutes later, having already drifted off to sleep. 

\----

When he next awoke, the signs of morning were streaming through the windows—though, at some point, someone had pulled the curtains shut. 

Ferdinand made a noise that did not even remotely resemble a word as he shifted in the bed. His face was firmly planted into his pillow, and extracting himself required far more effort than it reasonably should have. He could hardly even begin to explain how so much of his hair had wound up in his mouth, clearly a hazard of his new hairstyle. He was, at least, grateful that no one else was in the room to see him attempting to wipe drool from his—

“Good morning,” Hubert von Vestra said. 

Ferdinand nearly jumped out of his skin. 

“I made you tea.”

Upon rubbing at his eyes and forcing himself to make it the rest of the way to consciousness, he could, in fact, see a shadow looming over the desk that could only be Hubert, seemingly sorting through stacks of paper. He was dressed in the same clothes as yesterday. Ferdinand wondered if he had ever changed out of them.

How did he manage to do that so _quietly?_

He could also, upon further consideration, smell the tea in the air, suffusing light hints of fruit throughout the room. It was still hot, then. 

“… What are you doing?” Ferdinand asked. Hubert did not get the chance to answer.

“Oh no, you don’t. I would have words with you, Ferdinand von Aegir.”

Ferdinand yelped, flipping over in the bed to see someone else standing at the table on the other side of the room. The years had changed his face, his hair, and his clothes, but he was easily identified. Ferdinand would know that yawn anywhere.

 _“Linhardt?”_

“Oh, yes. And memories or no memories, this is entirely your fault.”

He could not help but sputter. “M—my fault? How so?”

Linhardt made a face. “I am up far too early. It’s _your_ fault.” 

He paused, before adding, “… And Hubert’s.”

Hubert made a noncommittal noise in response, but his smirk was audible enough. 

Ferdinand could not help but take some amount of solace in the fact that Linhardt von Hevring had not changed _that_ much.

“That is hardly _my_ fault,” Ferdinand defended. “Any time is too early for you.” 

Linhardt waved a dismissive hand at him, which quickly turned into a gesture meant to cover an oncoming yawn. 

As it turned out, his yawn was contagious; Ferdinand brought his hand up as well, even as he reached for the cup of tea that was steaming enticingly on the nearby nightstand. He did not know how Hubert had managed to time it so well, but he did not particularly care. He was parched, feeling as though his tongue might permanently stick to the roof of his mouth at any moment; his voice was uncharacteristically hoarse. 

Even as he sipped it, though, he eyed the biscuits that had been arrayed next to the cup, clearly meant to tempt him. 

“Maybe so,” Linhardt continued, pulling the curtains open and allowing light into the room. “But it is still your fault that I am even in Enbarr in the first place. I was supposed to be on vacation.” 

Ferdinand squinted at him over the brim of his cup. Linhardt was hardly fond of work as it was; was he not _always_ on vacation? 

Perhaps that was unfair. Hubert had said Linhardt had dutifully served as their medic throughout the war, which, Ferdinand noted, must have been particularly difficult given his aversion to all things violent. It was likely that Ferdinand owed Linhardt his life many times over; that debt alone had earned him some amount of sympathy. 

“… I’m sorry,” Ferdinand said. 

“Hm.” Linhardt approached him, then, an assortment of items in his hands. He divided them between the bed and the nightstand as Ferdinand dejectedly returned his teacup to its saucer. “Hubert was right. This _is_ weird.” He studied Ferdinand for a moment. “Now, sit up straight.” 

Ferdinand complied, though he felt silly given his current appearance. He had always been a heavy sleeper—when he could sleep at all—but his hair had exacerbated the resulting mess. He took slight comfort from the fact that, of all people, Linhardt likely could not care less about his bedraggled state. He could distinctly recall a nonzero amount of times where Linhardt had dragged himself into a morning class several minutes late, his uniform horrifically wrinkled and hair sticking in every direction. 

“How are you feeling, then?” Linhardt asked. And then, as an afterthought, “… Keep it brief, please.” 

Ferdinand frowned, taking his physical state into account. He refrained from launching into a detailed spiel. 

“A dull headache. Breathing is… difficult, at times. The pain from the other wounds fluctuates.” He didn’t really even know the extent of his injuries; he knew his head was bandaged, and he had run a hand until his shirt to discover rather extensive bandaging there, as well, but that was all. 

“Oh, what an excellent job at being concise. I didn’t know you had it in you, given the nature of your situation.” 

Ferdinand smiled sheepishly. “I am trying my best.” 

“Though you know,” Linhardt said, reaching for one of the biscuits on the nightstand. Ferdinand watched him, offended, as he put it in his mouth. Those were _his_ —he hadn’t even gotten to eat one yet. “Breathing would be easier if you hadn’t pulled that little stunt yesterday,” he continued after he’d finished. “Don’t give me that face; Hubert told me all about it.” 

And then Linhardt was… lifting up his shirt? Ferdinand yelped—then winced—as he instinctively moved to stop him, hoping to preserve some of his dignity. 

“Hold still,” Linhardt chided. Putting aside his already-wounded pride, Ferdinand allowed him to remove his shirt entirely. 

He watched him work with curiosity. Ferdinand hardly recognized his own body, covered in a plethora of small scars (and a few larger, more concerning ones), well-muscled, and heavily bandaged—though none that seemed to be in desperate need of replacing, which he imagined was a promising sign. After wiping his hands free of crumbs, Linhardt began poking him in places, gauging his pain response (or so Ferdinand hoped); every so often he would turn away, scribbling something in a notebook. 

“Pulse a little fast, probably anxiety; pupils are dilated in accordance with the head injury, or maybe they’re still adjusting to the light. Either way, chances are that will subside. If it doesn’t, I’ll have to figure something out. Hm,” he lifted one of the bandages, unconcerned when Ferdinand hissed between his teeth, “seems to be scarring nicely, and, given the reported lack of vomiting, there aren’t any adverse effects as a result of the magic—”

“Linhardt,” Ferdinand interjected. “You could talk to me instead of at me.”

“It’s less enjoyable if you respond.” 

Ferdinand simply sighed. Linhardt was still Linhardt.

“Although, you don’t know what actually happened, do you?” Linhardt said after a moment, not even bothering to meet Ferdinand’s eyes. 

Ferdinand shook his head.

“Well, the head trauma should be obvious. Whatever healer they took you to originally stopped most of that bleeding weeks ago, but… head wounds can be tricky.” He made a face, pursing his lips. “Honestly, the bandage probably isn’t necessary anymore. Unless you’re going to keep slamming your head into various floors.” 

“I do not intend to.”

“Good. That’d make even more work for me.”

Linhardt returned to his poking and prodding, going so far as to cast several small, faith-based spells. Whether they were intended to heal or do… something else, Ferdinand was not sure. He had never been particularly gifted with magic. 

“Oh, right, you probably want the rest, huh?” Linhardt continued. “Your ribs are heavily bruised, likely the result of a hard fall. The other injuries are magical in nature: some mixture of fire magic and a more corrosive dark magic.” That didn’t sound like nothing—memories or no memories, Ferdinand supposed he should have been grateful to have survived at all. “The scarring may be rather extensive, but I’ve healed what I can. It’s probably a good sign that you’re not in too much pain. It almost reminded me of the time that golem cornered you in Fhirdiad and the building came down—” 

Ferdinand met his gaze with a blank expression.

“Right. Sorry.” 

Linhardt tilted his head curiously. “Anything strange happening with your crest?” 

What? 

Linhardt had always been a self-proclaimed “crest scholar,” he supposed. And he had always possessed a propensity for asking odd questions, when the mood struck him. 

“… No?” Ferdinand answered.

Linhardt flipped his notebook shut. 

“Great!” 

He produced what appeared to be a syringe, then. “One more thing, and then I’ll tell your moody boyfriend that you’re fine to leave. Maybe not as fit as a whistle, but, well, it’s a process, isn’t it?” _Boyfriend._ What a strange term.

“I am not _moody,”_ Hubert shot over. 

“Of course you aren’t.” 

Ferdinand expected to flinch as Linhardt drew blood, but found himself… mostly nonplussed. Truthfully, Linhardt seemed much worse off, clearly attempting to stop himself from gagging. He swayed slightly when he pulled the needle back. 

Ferdinand wondered how the man had ever managed to be a field medic at all. 

“All right, I’ll—whooh—I’ll get this tested, and I’ll just… I’ll get the results back to you. In the meantime, I don’t see why you couldn’t be out and about—though I can’t for the life of me understand why you would _want_ to be. Just don’t do anything,” he yawned, “that I wouldn’t do. And stay off of horses for the foreseeable future.”

Hubert chose this moment to conclude his work, now holding in his gloved hands a thick stack of paper, presumably all pulled from the confines of Ferdinand’s desk. 

“Thank you, Linhardt,” Hubert said. “Though your bedside manner continues to leave something to be desired.” 

Linhardt waved him off, stifling yet another yawn as he collected his things. “As if you could do any better. I’m going back to bed.” 

And then, “Oh, and goodbye, Ferdinand. It’s nice to see you awake and feeling yourself.” 

Was he feeling himself? He could not help but consider, with a substantial amount of doubt, the credulity of the statement. 

Still, he imagined that Linhardt had meant it to be comforting. 

“Thank you, Linhardt,” Ferdinand said. And then, quieter, more for himself than anyone else, “It was nice to see you.” 

He thus found himself, once again, alone with Hubert. The man stood at the edge of the bed, still preoccupied with flitting through and scanning pages upon pages of words. He looked like he hadn’t slept. 

“What are you doing?” he asked, having been denied an answer earlier.

“I am looking for something,” was the only response. 

“Well,” Ferdinand said. “I hope that you find it.” A slight pause. “Do you ever rest?” 

For what felt like the first time that morning, Hubert glanced back at him. “I don’t have the time.” 

“You’ll run yourself ragged, you know.”

“You’ve said as much before.” 

He felt mildly reinvigorated, knowing that he had at least some things in common with this mysterious other Ferdinand. He flashed Hubert a smile. “And clearly I was right! Though that should surprise no one, I should think.” 

And that made Hubert smile, too, the act a small, precious thing. Hubert had certainly never smiled like that at the Academy.

“… Thank you for the tea. And the biscuits.” Though he had yet to successfully eat one. Glancing over, Linhardt had stole another before he’d left. Ferdinand sighed—at least his teacup had not been accosted. 

“I did make a promise to you.” 

“It was my favorite.” Or, at least, one of his favorites—it was difficult to pick _only_ one.

“I know.” Hubert’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, hiding an unplaceable emotion, before he returned to his paperwork. 

“I would like to see Edelgard,” Ferdinand said once again. 

“And so you shall.”

Ferdinand’s eyes widened; he had almost expected Hubert to provide him with another excuse. “Truly?” 

“I don’t see why not. Though you can hardly go out looking like that.” 

Ferdinand glanced down at himself, then, utterly mortified—he had nearly forgotten the disastrous condition of his appearance. He had to clean his face, brush out his tangled, unruly locks, perhaps find a tie or ribbon to contain them with, and he had to be wearing at least twice as many clothes as he was right now. 

“Well, then,” Ferdinand said. “I suppose I should get dressed.”

But first—Goddess, he needed to wash his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up way, waaay longer than I'd intended, but I hope it was enjoyable! I think I'm currently aiming for six or seven chapters, but with how things are going, who can say. I didn't think I'd have three chapters all set in the same room, but here we are! 
> 
> Another shoutout to my pal Lily for helping me out with some of the dialogue here, and thanks again for all of the absolutely incredible comments that everyone has left!! I don't think I've ever written something this quickly in my life. <3 
> 
> You can find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) I don't post very often, but I currently retweet a lot of Three Houses!


	4. The Prime Minister's Bluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand attends a meeting with the Adrestian Emperor. Some things are painfully different; some things are frustratingly the same.

It took no short amount of time for Ferdinand to make himself presentable.

Part of it was due to the fact that he had to search for everything he needed, relearning the layout of a room he knew he’d been in hundreds of times; part of it was that he felt as though he had not been properly _clean_ in weeks—which he supposed was true, in a sense. 

It had taken time just for him to sort through everything in the washroom, and he was becoming increasingly certain that Hubert had, in fact, been sharing the Prime Minister’s quarters with him—if only because he had a difficult time imagining that he would ever be caught dead using some of these products.

It still sparked a level of dissonance to consider himself having ever been intimate with Hubert von Vestra, but he had to admit that he was growing fond of the idea. He wished to know the rest of the story—when Hubert had begun to look at him with fondness rather than disdain, what their friendship had looked like, how they had courted, how they had kissed, how they had—

Well. Probably best not to think about it. Instead, he began to run his bath and undress. 

Removing the bandages that spanned his torso had revealed a rather ghastly sight; his left side was in the process of scabbing over—clearly the victim of some manner of spell—and his right side was an unappealing mixture of browns, yellows, and purples—a side effect of bruised ribs. Judging by how brutal the coloration was, he was lucky none of them had broken outright. 

Observing himself in the vanity mirror, it was his head wound that shocked him the most. It seemed to have healed almost entirely, leaving behind little more than a thin scar on the side of his forehead. He struggled to accept that such a small cut had caused such a monumental problem. 

Something else caught his eye in the mirror.

He brought his hand up to his neck curiously, watching his reflection as he ran his fingers over the area near his leftmost pulse point. The soreness that manifested as he did so surprised him—there were needle marks (or, at least, something resembling them) peppering his neck in clusters. They were in the process of healing, clearly several days—perhaps weeks—old at this point. Frowning, Ferdinand traced the dull sensation along his skin and discovered a similar situation where his spine began. His heart began to beat faster, though he did not know why. 

It was odd. Perhaps Linhardt had done more to him while he was unconscious than he’d previously imagined. Perhaps he had then simply forgotten to inform him about it, as he so often did. Surely Linhardt would not—surely _Hubert_ would not—intentionally withhold something important from him. 

Yes, that was it. They must have simply forgotten about these strange marks, the information having slipped their minds. He had never known Hubert to forget something, admittedly, but even with an outdated frame of reference, he _had_ looked exceptionally tired these past two days. And that _must_ have been it, because the alternative was that he had lied. 

And he would not claim to love him only to lie to his face. 

_That’s enough,_ he thought, as though he could will the subject away. As if that had ever worked before. Ferdinand shook his head, unclenching hands that had subconsciously become fists. His nails left indents in his palms. 

_One thing at a time._

Apparently, he could not even handle that. His eyes shot over to the bathtub, and he jumped to turn the nozzle off—he’d run much more water than he’d intended. The silence that fell over the room once the rush of water had ceased left the sound of his heart thundering in his ears.

 _There is nothing to be done that worrying will solve. You know that. You are Ferdinand von Aegir, and you will figure out what to do. Your injuries will heal. Your friends care for you. You will learn to adapt._

_If you try hard enough, you can get your memories back. Until then, you simply have to prove yourself._

He hissed as he sank into the bath, gritting his teeth. The water did not burn, per se, but it was warm against his wounds.

 _Just try to relax._

He let out a breath and sank further into the water, admiring the air bubbles it created. It provided him with a fleeting feeling of control. 

Hubert had suggested he attend the twice-weekly meeting of the Imperial Council this morning, with the promise that afterwards, he could speak to Edelgard privately ( _“Her Majesty,”_ his mind supplied in Hubert’s voice). It would do the Adrestian people—the people of _Fódlan_ —and the Empire’s bureaucrats good to see the Prime Minister make something that could be construed as a public appearance, Hubert had said.

 _Even if it is not really their Prime Minister,_ Ferdinand had silently filled in.

He still was not certain what he would say to Edelgard. He needed to build a case for himself; he had to find the ways that he could still be useful. He had to—

“Ferdinand,” came Hubert’s voice from the other side of the door, jolting him from his thoughts. “You may wish to hurry up, if we are to have any hope of being punctual.”

He pulled himself up quicker than he should have, sending a hand impulsively to his side and a bottle of shampoo clattering against the floor in the process. 

“… Ferdinand?”

“I-I’m fine!” 

Honestly, he’d forgotten that Hubert was likely waiting for him.

“… And I’ll be out soon!” 

“See that you are.” 

He made quick work of the rest of his bath, ultimately settling on a shampoo that was scented with hints of vanilla and honey. If he were to grow accustomed to sporting such a hairstyle, he may as well enjoy it. 

After determining that he was sufficiently clean—something he found oddly relieving—he drained the bath, extracted himself, avoided slipping in the water he had spilled over the edge of the tub, dried off his body, wrapped himself and his hair in a towel, and—

Oh, dear.

“Hubert?” he asked. If he were lucky, maybe Hubert had decided to go on ahead without him—

“Yes?”

Never mind.

“I, ah—need new bandages,” he said.

“There are some out here for you.”

Hubert did not seem to get the point.

“I don’t—I am _indecent.”_

____

Ferdinand heard him sigh, exasperation apparent. 

____

“This may shock you to hear,” Hubert began, “but I have seen you naked.” 

____

“That is not—I’m not—” 

____

“Put a _towel_ on.”

____

“I _have_ one, but that is hardly the _point!”_

____

Goddess, the impropriety. 

____

“Would you like me to leave the room?” 

____

“Y-yes!” 

____

“Oh, for the love of—that was a _joke,_ Ferdinand.”

____

“I am not joking!” The pitch of his voice was climbing higher by the second. He considered himself lucky that the mirror had now fogged up to enough of a degree that he could not see how undoubtedly red his face was. 

____

“How, exactly, do you plan on applying your new bandages?” 

____

“I will _figure it out!”_

____

Ferdinand did not think it possible for an eyeroll to be audible. “You are being ridiculous.”

____

_“Hubert—!”_

____

_“Fine.”_

____

Ferdinand waited until he heard the heavy click of the main door closing before he dared stray from the washroom. 

____

“I left out clothes for you, in the interest of time,” Hubert said through yet another door. Frankly, though Ferdinand had certainly not been willing to budge on the matter, he was shocked by Hubert’s patience. 

____

“I can see that, thank you.”

____

“Good. I wasn’t sure if you had blindfolded yourself to protect your own innocence,” he retorted. 

____

“Very funny.” To his own disdain, he was, in fact, struggling to put his bandages into place. Unwilling to be deterred—or, Goddess forbid, ask Hubert for _help_ with the matter—he persevered until he had achieved something acceptable, and, with no small amount of excitement, turned his attention to the clothes that Hubert had selected. 

____

Though he had been looking forward to evaluating his own wardrobe, this would do well enough. It was nothing extravagant, but it was, he thought, lovely in its own way. He had expected to wear Imperial red, but the vest and jacket before him were a surprisingly light blue, accented in gold and accompanied by a simple white cravat and cravat pin. There was a short, slanted cape to accompany it, bordered in a darker blue. The breeches were a plain gray, and Hubert had even gone to the effort of choosing a pair of leather boots that sported excellent craftsmanship (though it was not as if Ferdinand believed he would ever own anything that wasn’t).

____

He dressed his lower half with ease, but encountered difficulty when he attempted to put on his shirt. Staring once again at his own reflection, Ferdinand indignantly noted that his hair was still wet. _Sopping_ wet, in fact. It made untangling his mass of copper locks nearly impossible, and anything he dared put on would dampen in seconds. He tried to brush it—the only result he achieved was to nearly rip his hair out in its entirety. 

____

Ferdinand could not go to a council meeting like this, and for all he knew, it would take hours to dry. As proud as he was, some things were more important: there was only one chance to make a first impression, as they said, and he had to live up to the standard he was certain he had previously set as Prime Minister.

____

At least he was wearing pants now. 

____

“Hubert,” he called out miserably. Immediately, the door opened. What a sight Ferdinand must have been, half-dressed, with a brush hopelessly trapped in his hair. Hubert looked at him for a moment with that same unreadable expression he’d seen previously, his eyes briefly flitting around the rest of the room, before he gave a slight sigh and his face shifted to something softer. 

____

“I am afraid we might be late,” Ferdinand concluded. He heard bootsteps behind him.

____

“Let me,” Hubert said. 

____

When Ferdinand relinquished the brush to him, he was surprised to touch bare skin rather than the cloth of Hubert’s previously ever-present gloves. It made sense that he would not want to get them wet, he supposed. 

____

But when he looked at Hubert’s hands in the mirror, beginning to make their way gently through his hair, Ferdinand found he could not look away. He knew it was rude to stare, but—

____

Hubert’s fingertips were stained a rather gnarly-looking mixture of blacks and purples, with the purple continuing in spiderlike veins up through his hands and wrists. Ferdinand suspected the cause was Hubert’s continued usage of dark magic, but knowing the effects of something and actually seeing them were two very different things.

____

“I know,” Hubert said, locking eyes with Ferdinand through the mirror. “They’re unsightly. But you’ll simply have to deal with it if you want me to dry your hair.” 

____

“I did not say that,” Ferdinand defended. 

____

“You didn’t have to.” 

____

“I was not _going_ to,” he said, and it was the truth. “I just—I’ve never seen them before. That I can remember. You have always been so… secretive.” He watched a frown briefly pass over Hubert’s face. 

____

Ferdinand felt a warm sensation flourish against the back of his neck as Hubert began to use an almost imperceptible fire spell to dry his hair. Combined with Hubert’s fingers in his hair and the methodical strokes of the hairbrush, it was an enrapturing sensation. 

____

“Hubert,” Ferdinand wondered. “Do you think I could see my horses sometime soon?” 

____

Even with the flurry of more dangerous thoughts swirling around in his head, he could not deny that he desperately wished for something he could consider normal. Linhardt had warned him against going on rides, but that did not mean he couldn’t take care of the creatures. He was quite certain that horses, at least, would not care if he had lost his memories; he found the idea of being recognized without any stipulations… enticing. 

____

“I don’t see why not. I’m sure they’ve missed you.” Ferdinand found himself pleasantly surprised—he had expected Hubert to insert a point in his response regarding his distaste of the creatures. Maybe he had warmed up to them over the years. 

____

Silence fell over them for a moment, Hubert continuing to work through his hair. 

____

“You know, Ferdinand,” Hubert began after a time. This time, their eyes did not meet. “I was considering picking up some ginger tea for myself from the market earlier.” 

____

Ferdinand’s brows knit together at the statement, wondering where this conversation had come from.

____

“Though,” Hubert continued, “I suppose it’s out of season right now, isn’t it?” 

____

Hubert’s visible eye was on Ferdinand’s face, to be certain, but he was not looking at him. The question feigned lightness in a way that Ferdinand could not place—he felt like he was being interrogated about tea, of all things.

____

It could have been a worse subject matter, he supposed.

____

“I shouldn’t think so,” Ferdinand answered. “As far as I am aware, ginger tea should always be in season, from somewhere or another. Though I thought you did not care for tea? Or ginger, for that matter.” He seemed to recall Hubert hating most things that could be considered as adding _flavor._ Though, in fairness, Ferdinand would never go out of his way to select ginger tea, either. 

____

The frown returned, deeper this time. “Perhaps I don’t.”

____

“Then why would you—”

____

The hairbrush clinked against the dresser. 

____

“All done,” Hubert said, replacing his gloves. Ferdinand could not help but feel as though he had somehow answered incorrectly. He had to admit that his hair looked quite nice, though. 

____

“Thank you, Hubert!” he remarked with a smile, trying to ignore the pit that had once again begun to settle in his stomach. “If you give me just a few more moments, I should be ready.”

____

“Are you going to banish me from the room again?” Some of the chill had left his tone, at least. 

____

“Of course.” 

____

Hubert sighed. Ferdinand wondered if it ever made him lightheaded, being so thoroughly exasperated all the time.

“Then I will wait outside for you to grace me with your fully-dressed presence—and in case you find yourself needing my assistance to do up your buttons or boot laces.”

____

Ferdinand did not dignify that with a response.

____

With his hair dry, it took Ferdinand a perfectly reasonable amount of time to layer his shirt, his vest, and his jacket properly. He affixed his cravat and its pin, draped his cape over his shoulders, and even went so far as to attach a (primarily ceremonial) sword to his belt. He considered putting his hair up, perhaps tying it back with any of the many ribbons he had discovered among his belongings, but decided against it. Instead, he pulled sections of his hair forwards over his shoulders, ensuring that the marks on his neck were well-concealed. 

____

Admiring himself in the mirror one final time, he had to acknowledge that he found himself rather striking. If nothing else, he at least seemed official. Hopefully, if the Goddess were on his side, it would serve to empower him—if only for a day—to project a confidence he was quite certain he did not feel.

____

He stepped out of his room for the first time in weeks, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal to come. 

____

“Ah—” Hubert said as Ferdinand shut the door behind him. “Right on time.” 

____

Hubert made no attempt to move, however. 

____

“Is something the matter?” Ferdinand asked quickly. He attempted to do a flustered once-over of his outfit, hoping he had not accidentally put something on backwards. 

____

“No, no, nothing is wrong. You just look… almost presentable.” 

____

Was there a flush to his cheeks? Ferdinand had not thought him capable. 

____

“I should hope I look slightly better than that—”

____

“You… you do. I was being modest.” It was Hubert’s turn to stare, now. It made Ferdinand feel better about his earlier behavior, at least. 

____

Ferdinand smiled at him. “That is reassuring! I need to make a good impression, after all.”

____

\------

____

There was much that could be said about the splendor of the Imperial Palace, but that was not what drew Ferdinand’s attention now. Most of the decorations had remained the same through the years—it was the atmosphere of the place that felt different. As much as he had loved it as a child, he had learned in retrospect that it had always been a stifling, dangerous place. Now, the most danger he felt came from the man walking a few steps in front of him. 

____

“Hubert,” Ferdinand said to the figure. “How do you plan to explain my situation?”

____

“Simple,” he threw backwards. “I don’t.” 

____

That was absurd. He had been missing from his _public position_ as a head of state for two weeks as it was, and he had now been rendered completely inept. That could not simply go _unexplained._

____

He knew his voice sounded more than a little incredulous. “But that doesn’t—”

____

“The Empire is in a more fragile position than you realize, Ferdinand. We cannot afford to appear weak while we are attempting to reestablish governance over Fódlan—as such, you are simply recovering from a bout of the Faerghan flu.”

____

_“But Hubert—”_

____

Hubert shot him a look that said he was not in the mood to argue this particular point. 

____

“Her Majesty and I have agreed that this is the best course of action. You have but to follow our lead.” Ferdinand felt like a petulant toddler receiving a scolding. As if he could not be trusted to make decisions. 

____

Ferdinand closed his mouth, his lips pressing into a frown. He should have known that his invitation to this meeting was nothing more than an attempt to mitigate the damage. 

____

Still, he would be foolish not to use it as a learning opportunity. He could make the most of this. 

____

Hubert looked back at him again, his face shifting into something that could almost be considered apologetic for a split second. 

____

“You are welcome to take notes for the duration. Her Majesty and I promise to answer anything for you afterwards.” 

____

“… All right.” He was, after all, in no position to argue. 

____

“—Ah, Prime Minister! How good it is to see you again—it feels like it’s been ages.” A man Ferdinand did not recognize extended a hand to him. Ferdinand moved to take it, attempted to flash him a convincing smile, and opened his mouth to speak—

____

“I’m afraid that Minister von Aegir has lost his voice,” Hubert interjected. 

____

He should have known. Anything to keep him from making a misstep.

____

It was a decent enough excuse, he supposed. He gave the man (whom he did not recognize in the slightest) an apologetic nod.

____

"Oh, what a shame. I do hope you’ll still be willing to cooperate with me concerning those endowments for the arts we were discussing.”

____

Ferdinand provided him with another small nod just as Hubert began to urge him forwards into the meeting room with a hand at his waist. The man pointedly did not follow them into the room. 

____

“Yes, yes, I’m sure he will,” Hubert said loudly. Then, under his breath, “Insufferable man.” 

____

Despite himself, a more genuine smile tugged at Ferdinand’s lips. It may have been brief, but he enjoyed being privy to Hubert’s quiet annoyance in this moment. 

____

As they entered the room properly, Ferdinand sought to take everything in. His eyes, however, were drawn to one thing, and one thing only. 

____

Before him, standing at the head of the table, was Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg. Her hair was rolled into buns and wrapped into a magnificent horned crown, and she was dressed in brilliant reds and whites. She was not ostentatious—she never was—but she was stunning in her own right. The moment her eyes met his, she moved to meet him. 

____

Though she had never been particularly tall, her demeanor—her mere presence—commanded respect. And yet— _and yet_ —she approached him with a smile, as though they were lifelong friends. As though he had never pestered her with incessant demands, outrageous challenges, boisterous declarations. 

____

“Prime Minister,” she greeted. “It is good to see you. I’m sorry to hear about your voice.” 

____

Right. He could not even respond to her. He mustered another smile—it seemed to be the only thing he could do. Smile and nod. Smile and nod. Edelgard at least had the kindness to look sympathetic. 

____

“We have missed your valuable insight,” she continued. “I very much look forward to conferring with you again.”

____

_As if I have any insights to offer anymore._

____

It was kind of her to say, even if it was not—could not—be true.

____

Another smile. Another nod. 

____

He took his position at the table in the spot opposite the Emperor as instructed. He had, as promised, been provided ample amounts of pen and paper. 

____

He picked up the quill. Hubert had said he could write questions to ask later. He may have only been a puppet Prime Minister awaiting replacement, but he would be the best puppet Prime Minister he could manage for the time he had. Perhaps, if he simply worked hard enough, Edelgard would not find it necessary to remove him from his position at all. 

____

He dipped the quill in its inkpot. 

____

_Who was that man?_ He wrote. 

____

_What endowment for the arts?_

____

“Heya, Ferdie,” came a voice to his right. “Is this seat taken?” 

____

The question was rhetorical. Dorothea Arnault lowered herself into the chair with a casual sort of poise. She immediately brought her arms up to rest on the table, fixing him with that piercing stare of hers. Once again, Ferdinand found himself clutching at the things he could recognize.

____

This was the same woman who had told him she hated him to his face—no matter the number of attempts at peace he had offered, she had been determined to rebuke him. From what he remembered, he thought things had been improving after he’d gone to the effort of baking her treats—and she had gone to the effort of taking him to the infirmary for the light burns on his hand. He hoped they had ultimately become friends after all. 

____

“You’re a pretty hard man to track down for someone who hasn’t left his room until now, Ferdie,” she continued. “Hubie’s been very particular about sharing you with the rest of us.”

____

He suppressed a chuckle; how could he have forgotten her nickname for a man that fancied himself to be a shadow personified? 

____

He wanted to speak with her desperately. Instead, he reinked his quill.

____

“Ferdie, you know it’s rude to—”

____

He slid the paper over.

____

_I have been informed that I have lost my voice._

____

“Oh,” she said sadly, “And here I was hoping we could gossip this meeting away.” She sighed.

____

_I am sorry to disappoint._

____

“Don’t be.” She threw her hair over one shoulder. Dorothea, as with the other former Black Eagles he had seen thus far, was as lovely as ever, her hair as long and loose as Ferdinand’s. She was dressed in a deep maroon, pinstriped vest, sporting a simple grey blouse underneath. Emerald earrings that matched her eyes hung from her ears, and though the outfit itself was not any more eye-catching than the rest of them, her color choices ensured that no one would be foolish enough to miss her. “It just means that you owe me later.” 

____

_Owe you?_

____

“Oh yes, Ferdie. We have a lot to talk about, you and I.”

____

_That sounds rather ominous._

____

She simply laughed at him, the sound like music. He wondered what she would want to speak about. Likely the only thing _to_ speak about, he imagined. 

____

He crafted another question.

____

_Why are you here, Dorothea?_

____

“I wanted to see you, silly. But—” she took a moment to glance at Edelgard, who looked as though she were about to say something. “I’ll tell you later.”

____

Still standing at the head of the table, Edelgard cleared her throat, and, on instinct, everyone around the table stood up as a sign of respect. As a true ruler should, she demanded the attention of everyone in the room. Hubert stood to her left, and the two of them felt painfully far away, particularly now that Ferdinand lacked the means to speak. 

____

Was it not bad enough that he had to appear before this council without his memories? Must he lose his voice, too?

____

The rest of the table consisted of an assortment of faces, some he knew and some he didn’t. After Hubert had told him of Edelgard’s purge of the nobility, he was somewhat surprised to see that the Minister of Domestic Affairs and Minister of War remained unchanged in Count Hevring and Count Bergliez, Linhardt and Caspar’s respective fathers—he supposed they must have proved exceptionally useful during the war. 

____

“All right, everyone, I believe we’re nearly ready to begin. As you can see,” Edelgard said, her voice carrying to every corner of the room, “We are lucky enough to have our Prime Minister back with us today. Unfortunately, he is still feeling somewhat under the weather, and as such, for his sake, I would like to formally request that no one direct any questions to him today. Please ask either myself or Marquis Vestra, instead.” 

____

Ferdinand felt as though she were trying to communicate something with her eyes. He did not flinch away from her gaze—he never had when they were students, and he would not do it now—but he knew that he was missing something that ran deeper than the thin smile on her lips. He also knew that everyone else at the table had their eyes on him.

____

He had never before imagined Edelgard to be a competent liar. He was beginning to wonder if he needed to reconsider that assumption. 

____

The Emperor of Adrestia—of Fódlan—broke eye contact and sat down, causing a chorus of chairs to scrape against the floor in response as the meeting was allowed to get underway. The others pulled their attention from Ferdinand in turn, shifting to conduct business as usual, as if nothing were wrong. 

____

Everyone except one, anyways. 

____

Hubert. 

____

Ferdinand offered him another smile. Hubert, to his credit, did his best to reciprocate. 

____

\------

____

Ferdinand had tried to follow the meeting as best as he could in its entirety. He took copious notes on every subject from the continued reconstruction efforts to the scheduling of next month’s ceremonial ball and corresponding state dinner. He dictated question after question to ask of Edelgard and Hubert regarding the names and records of mentioned officials, the current condition of noted war-ravaged villages, how decisions were made on how and where to delegate funds for the expansion of infrastructure. He had been particularly interested in a lengthy talk concerning the food supply of the former Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Currently, the people relied on massive, unwieldy agricultural shipments from Bergliez—and even his own Aegir—lands to even simply subsist. There had been a proposal—a continued discussion on the topic, he had surmised—to try and re-cultivate the lands of the Tailtean Plains and beyond as arable farmland (Ferdinand could only assume that the land had been damaged in what must have been a siege of Fhirdiad). There had even been talks of investing in research concerning a new form of magic dedicated to boosting the fertility of barren, nutrient-deficient soil. 

____

Apparently, however, there were also plans in place to install a type of museum at Tailtean, to preserve the battlefield as a piece of history. 

____

It had been the site of several ancient battles, he supposed—from Saint Seiros’ purported defeat of Nemesis to the victory of Loog, the King of Lions, that had cemented the Kingdom’s independence to begin with. Ferdinand, however, for all of his reverence and interest in history, did not believe it to be a worthwhile enough reason to potentially deny a desperate population the food their needed to survive. _Especially_ considering the reports that some of the food that had been designated for the populace had been going missing at regular intervals, likely the work of thieves. 

____

Ferdinand had scribbled only one word on the matter.

____

_Tailtean?_

____

The meeting had actually been cut somewhat short—midway through, someone dressed in dark clothing (one of Hubert’s doubtlessly plentiful spies, he imagined) had slipped into the room and whispered something into Hubert’s ear. After a moment of consideration (and a whisper to Edelgard), he had excused himself from the table entirely. Hubert himself had not spoken much for the duration, though Ferdinand imagined that was not unusual. He likely thought it sufficient that the Minister of the Imperial Household be seen rather than be heard—and Ferdinand knew Hubert had never been much for tolerating bureaucracy.

____

The council had remained to wrap up what remained of their business after the interruption, but things had progressed more quickly after that. Edelgard had no longer been interested in humoring unnecessary conversation.

____

If anything was certain, it was that Ferdinand von Aegir detested being out of the loop.

____

“My, Ferdie,” Dorothea said over his shoulder after things had officially concluded. “You’ve written an entire novel there.”

____

As it had turned out, Dorothea had been at the meeting for more than simple fun—she had brought news, delivered to her through correspondence, regarding the progression of diplomatic efforts in Brigid. She also heralded the future arrival of Petra sometime in the next week, citing her intention to continue talks between their peoples—as well as to meet with old friends. 

____

Ferdinand looked over his writing. It was not an insignificant amount, he supposed, but it was all he could do, relegated to sitting in silence while the world continued without him. 

____

“I have a lot of questions,” Ferdinand said, free to speak now that everyone he had needed to fool had left the room. 

____

“I’m sure you do,” she replied, her gaze drifting to where Edelgard now stood, speaking in hushed whispers with other individuals (similarly dressed to the first one) that had rushed into the room. “I wonder what’s going on.”

____

“I wish I knew.” 

____

Were it not for the altered appearance and setting—and the fact that Hubert was still conspicuously absent—Ferdinand would have almost thought he were back at the Academy. The idea left him with no small hint of bitterness as he watched the spies scurry into the hallway. Edelgard released a sigh, beginning to collect her own notes.

____

“Well, it doesn’t look like Edie’s in too much of a rush. I’ll leave you to present your thesis, then,” Dorothea noted, standing up. “And afterwards, you can come ask me whatever she didn’t answer well enough.”

____

She leaned over, plucking the quill from his hand and moving to write something down. “There’s this little bakery you like down the road. They serve tea, too, of course—I’ll leave you the address. What do you say to meeting me there at… hm, five o’clock? As a noble among nobles, I expect you to be punctual.”

____

“That sounds lovely, Dorothea. I would not dream of keeping you waiting.” Ferdinand smiled at her, though he briefly pondered the fact that someone else had to be responsible for informing him of something as simple as his own preferences in bakeries. 

____

“See that you don’t,” she said lightly, leaning forward to plant a single kiss on his cheek. “I’ve missed you, Ferdie. I mean that.” 

____

He considered how genuine she sounded; her voice was devoid of the cool, thinly veiled hostility he remembered. As she walked away, she paused briefly to exchange a quiet whisper with the Emperor. Ferdinand once again felt as though he were the only one not in on the conversation.

____

He shook his head, collecting his notes as he stood up, the sound of his chair echoing through the nearly empty room. Edelgard lifted her head, refocusing her attention on him once again. 

____

“Ferdinand,” she said.

____

“Edelgard,” he replied. 

____

He closed the gap between them with haste. “I would have words with you, Emperor, if you will hear me out.”

____

Her eyebrows rose in curiosity. “By all means, Prime Minister.” 

____

“I was just… thinking on Faerghus’ food situation. I do believe that all of the mentioned proposals are worth exploring as long-term solutions, but what if, for the short term, we were to focus on something that could prove more immediately helpful? I was thinking that we could perhaps attempt to establish a means of transporting large amounts of fertilizer for the north before the next growing season begins. Faerghus’ land has never been able to sustain an abundance of crops or livestock, after all, so they are no doubt lacking in both. They are a fiercely independent people, however—and no doubt they are even more disdainful, distrustful, and disorganized after this war. Admittedly, I am not completely informed on the situation anymore, but I was thinking that it could prove an effective gesture of good faith if we could provide them the means of providing for themselves, at least until we can establish a more permanent solution. I thought that it would be easier, now, since the old borders are no longer an issue, and I would be… _impressed_ if the fertilizer disappeared in a similar manner to the food we have been attempting to distribute. That is just… It is a thought, is all.”

____

He paused to take a breath. Edelgard, to her credit, appeared pleasantly interested as he moved to continue.

____

“—Also, I do not know who suggested that the Prime Minister and the Emperor continue to sit so far apart at these meetings, but I do not think I care for it.” 

____

Edelgard made a noise that Ferdinand could not immediately identify. 

____

And then—she was _laughing_ at him. He felt his heart sink in the face of such blatant mockery. 

____

His disappointment must have been evident in his expression, because she shook her head. 

____

“Oh, Ferdinand,” she said softly. 

____

There were arms wrapping around him, then, the shorter woman pulling him into a tight embrace. Resting her face against his shoulder, she spoke again. 

____

“I have missed your voice, my friend.”

____

She held him there for what felt like an eternity, and Ferdinand thought his heart might stop. He was not sure he could recall a time when Edelgard had hugged anyone where he had seen it, and she had certainly never hugged him. Warmth blossomed in his chest; he wished to hold onto this feeling. 

____

Perhaps she had not intended it to be mockery. Perhaps it was, instead, recognition.

____

She pulled back, eventually, as she had to. She kept her hands firmly on the side of his arms, however. 

____

“It was you, you know,” she said. 

____

“P…pardon?”

____

“You were the one that insisted we keep that arrangement. You said it would be meaningful to some of the… older generation on our council, serving as a promise that not everything has to change. These meetings are the only ones where you are not at my side.”

____

“Oh," he responded dumbly.

____

“I thought it was rather ingenious, honestly—the idea that if we allow them small, non-important traditions to cling to that they will be more willing to make concessions on the things that truly matter.”

____

It was a compliment, he knew, but it was directed towards someone he was not yet convinced hadn’t been another man entirely. 

____

“As for your fertilizer idea, I believe that’s actually one of your personal projects at the moment, and a good one, at that. It had not been brought to the council yet, but perhaps we can include it on the docket for the next one, as time is rather of the essence. I’m sure that Hubert would be more than willing to get you complete up to speed.” 

____

“I… I think I would like that,” Ferdinand said. “I know that I am not in the best position, but I would like to get back to work as soon as possible.”

____

He could prove that he was still useful.

____

“Ferdinand, you nearly _died_ only a few weeks ago.” Her voice overflowed with concern, and Ferdinand was grappling to understand an Edelgard that showed her concern so freely. “You need to take it easy—it would likely be best to ease you in gradually. I had thought that maybe you could tend to your horses, in the meantime, to help get back into the swing of things.”

____

His heart sank. He had been looking forward to seeing his horses—more than most things, really—but now? Now it felt as a convenient way to get him out of the way. The imposter Prime Minister could not cause any problems if he were busy playing with his ponies. If he settled for being dismissed and ignored, he would have no chance of reclaiming his old life.

____

“I do not wish to lounge around, Edelgard!” he pleaded. “I am already feeling much better, physically! I promise that I can still be useful—" He hadn't meant to voice that thought aloud, but he could not stop now. "You need only point me towards a—”

____

“It is not a matter of _usefulness,”_ Edelgard scolded. “I simply want you to have the time you need to _heal.”_

____

“But I—”

____

The door opened; both of them snapped their attention to the intruder. 

____

“Your Majesty—” Hubert von Vestra interjected, “Your next meeting is awaiting your presence.” 

____

“Ah, thank you, Hubert. Ferdinand, I’m very sorry to cut this short. I promise you that we can talk again soon, all right?”

____

“… Do you need my help?” Ferdinand offered weakly. He was not completely inept at determining when his presence was not desired. 

____

Hubert tilted his head. “You made an appointment with Dorothea, did you not?”

____

Edelgard offered him another smile, but Ferdinand found it tinged with a pity he did not appreciate. “Surely you would not want to keep her waiting?” 

____

He had thought things were improving, somewhat, over the past few minutes—he had at least thought he had made a decent case for himself. Now he felt as though he were being gently stabbed, their strict politeness a knife in his gut. The Prime Minister, not invited to a meeting—a meeting whose importance had been betrayed by the expression on Hubert’s face that urged utmost haste. It did not hurt that he was not needed for this particular meeting. It hurt because he knew he was not wanted at it regardless.

____

“I… I suppose that is true,” he said, chewing on his lip. 

____

Still, surely they had their reasons. If it were this important, perhaps they simply could not afford to have someone who lacked the appropriate context. They did not dislike him; they were simply busy. They were not abandoning him; they simply could not stop running the country for any lengthy period of time.

____

He had to hold onto that belief. “I will—take my leave, then.” 

____

“Thank you, Ferdinand,” Edelgard said. “I will see you later. I promise.” 

____

Ferdinand tucked an arm behind his back and bent at the waist, bowing before his Emperor. Hubert afforded him a curt nod, which he returned with a smile. A smile and a nod. 

____

He was left alone in the room, then, still clutching his notes. 

____

At least he had pastries and tea to look forward to. He could not possibly ruin that.

____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chapters continue to get longer and longer, but I hope they're still enjoyable!  
> Additionally, as a small note, I think I've decided that I won't explicitly mention any other romantic pairings between the Black Eagles, just because I'm having such a difficult time picking my favorites. Everyone is incredibly close with one another, though, so you can read it however you want!  
> As a warning, things are going to keep getting worse for poor Ferdinand before they get better. But I promise there will be a happy ending! 
> 
> Thanks again for the absolutely incredible response I've gotten to this, it's been amazing!! <3  
> (And my continual thanks to Lily and Alexz for letting me filter all of my ideas through you and for giving me so much inspiration c: ). 
> 
> You can find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) I don't post very often, but I currently retweet a lot of Three Houses!
> 
> EDIT: Now with INCREDIBLY lovely artwork from the fantastic [@stinkl1ng](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng) that can be found here ([x](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng/status/1247906158997897216))!


	5. The Truth of the Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand has never been one for vulnerability. He learns that, sometimes, it is unavoidable.

Ferdinand was not in a good mood.

After being deemed wholly unnecessary in the aftermath of the meeting of the Imperial Council, Ferdinand had returned to his room briefly to drop off his notes, a stack of paper pages thick with questions and observations that he had hoped would prove to Edelgard how committed he was to setting this right. Adrestia could not function without a Prime Minister, surely—they needed him. He would prove he could rise to the occasion.

Though he now feared it was all for naught. Edelgard had hardly had the time to even talk to him, much less examine the work he’d done. Ferdinand had failed to catch her eye with his proposals, and no doubt that was rather damning evidence of his newfound incompetence.

Chewing on his lip, he set the papers down on his desk in an orderly stack. He considered throwing them out entirely, but that hardly seemed productive. And besides, maybe there was still a chance—a chance that Edelgard and Hubert would take notice, take the time to answer what he wished to ask, as Hubert had promised that morning. There was still a chance.

Thinking of Hubert set him on another path of thought entirely. Hubert had been trying to conceal it, Ferdinand could tell, but there were hints of worry on his face that had slipped through his defenses, mingling with the tiredness that manifested around his eyes. And Hubert _did_ look exhausted, more than Ferdinand had ever seen him—which, itself, was something of a feat. Ferdinand was reminded that, until recently, he was fairly certain the two of them had been sharing this room together.

So Ferdinand had deprived Hubert of his normal sleeping arrangements as well as a lover. Maybe that was why he hadn’t slept.

This would be another issue that would no doubt be resolved when Edelgard was forced to remove him from his position, Ferdinand supposed. A man that was not the Prime Minister could hardly live in the Prime Minister’s quarters.

Ferdinand sighed, running his hands over his face. He let them rest at his temples, fingers rubbing at a headache that had done nothing but worsen since the meeting had ended. He was miserable. This could not stand, of course; he had an appointment with Dorothea, after all, and he could hardly afford to mope in her presence. She had done nothing to earn from Ferdinand a teatime that was so depressing—such a thing was distinctly unlike him. Still, he had a little over an hour to kill in the meantime. 

He no longer wanted to be in this room, filled with things that were familiar to someone else. But where could he go instead? 

Ah. He would go for a walk.

\------

Ferdinand let muscle memory guide him out of the Imperial Palace. The seemingly ever-present guard outside of his door had asked where he was going as he’d left, and he had answered honestly, of course, but he quickly tried to put the disconcerting thought that he was being constantly watched out of his head. In fact, if he tried not to think on _anything_ too much, he found he could even manage to walk with confidence, his boots clicking softly against the colored tiles. He wore a smile on his face and absently greeted everyone he encountered. Even if he did not recognize their faces, he found that it was a familiar action, as though he were roaming the halls of Garreg Mach Monastery, or, reaching back even further, following in the footsteps of his father through these very halls, eager to make a good impression with anyone who would listen. 

Socializing, even if the encounters were small, was something he considered himself good at. Hubert had mocked him for it on multiple occasions, he knew; those memories were still fresh in his mind. “Desperate for attention,” he had called it—unable to stand on his own without falling back on the safety provided by his family name and a false, overenthusiastic personality. Perhaps the comment had possessed some merit after all. 

_Goddess, Ferdinand,_ he thought to himself. _Is now the time for this?_

No, it was not. There was never a time for this. He did not lessen his pace. 

The massive front doors to the palace were, under normal circumstances, rarely closed, and now was no exception. They opened up to provide a magnificent view of Enbarr; Ferdinand stood at the top of the stairs for a long moment, drinking in the sun. There were clouds on the horizon—it looked as though it might rain soon, but that was hardly unusual for the season. It would not stop him from exploring the city. 

It felt good to be out in the open air again, among the bustling people of the city, but it was a strange experience, nonetheless. As he walked through the streets of Enbarr, a city he had been in an innumerable amount of times throughout his life, he was surprised to see just how much it had _changed._ He found streets altered, shops moved, new statues in places he did not remember. The foundation, the skeleton of the city, remained the same, but there was an entirely new coat of paint; it was just different enough to prove confusing, to solidify that there was so much knowledge currently out of his reach. He had told himself he would have to adapt, but truthfully, in this moment, he did not know how.

He didn’t dare venture into any shops—the thought of a merchant recognizing him was terrifying. It would not necessarily be unusual, the logical portion of his brain told him, for any citizen to recognize the Prime Minister, but how was he meant to respond if they asked him a personal question? He did not think he could bear it. 

So instead he stuck to the streets, determined to enjoy his walk. He watched people buying food from stalls along the streets, children engaged in a game of tag, couples entwining hands as they strolled down the cobblestones, and it was nice. Eventually, though, the clouds began to darken, rolling over the central plaza; deciding it would not do to show up to his appointment soaked with rain, he set out to find the bakery Dorothea had mentioned. He would be early, to be certain, but that would hardly be an issue—he preferred to arrive early to most things, anyways.

It was an easy enough walk, the exertion hardly even a fraction of what he would do every day at Garreg Mach as part of his training. As such, it stung only a bit when he was forced to stop and use a wall in an out-of-sight alley, the cold stone necessary to support himself while he tried to catch his breath, his lungs burning, his sides aching, his head pounding. 

\------

Contrary to the name hanging from the sign, _The Morning Kiss_ was, in fact, open all day. Currently sporting only a handful of patrons, Ferdinand found the bakery to be a cute, quaint establishment. It was exactly the type of place he could imagine himself in, indulging in breakfast early each morning in preparation for a long day of work. He would have a repertoire with the staff, and every morning he would greet them with a smile, inquiring after their lives. It was an endearing routine, and he longed for it. But how could he feel nostalgic for something he could not remember?

He was surprised to spot Dorothea already tucked into a quiet corner booth. She flashed him a friendly smile—a smaller, dampened version of a gesture he had once theorized could bring entire nations to heel—and waved him over. Ferdinand obliged, sliding into the seat across from her. 

“Fashionably early, I see,” she said, watching him with that clever, unwavering gaze. 

“It is not as if I had something more pressing,” he admitted, “And I could not bear the thought of keeping you waiting, Dorothea. Even still, you seem to have beat me here.” The walk he had taken had improved his mood somewhat; his smile had returned to his face in full force. 

“Call it a hunch,” she said with a wink. 

“Here you are, Ms. Dorothea!” A woman—presumably a waitress—approached the table, cheerfully setting down a porcelain plate and teacup with a flush to her cheeks. Dorothea appeared to have ordered some form of turnover, filled with what Ferdinand supposed to be either cherry or raspberry. It looked delicious. 

Only after she had set down Dorothea’s order did the waitress seem to notice Ferdinand, her face lighting up. 

“Oh, Prime Minister! You’re back! How was Derdriu?”

He watched Dorothea open her mouth in a split-second, presumably intending to cover for him. Ferdinand did not grant her the chance.

“Wonderful!” he replied. It was a lie, of course; according to Hubert, Ferdinand had never made it to Derdriu at all. He was confident, however, in his ability to be convincing—as much as he did not enjoy lying, it was occasionally a necessity, and he had had a very good teacher. “It is truly a beautiful city at this time of year—I highly recommend visiting yourself, if you are ever given the chance.” 

She giggled, blonde ponytail swinging as she did so. “I’ll keep that in mind! Would you like your usual this evening? I know it’s a bit later than you usually come in, but—”

“That sounds lovely,” he replied. Another strange sensation, but if he and this other Ferdinand were to be the same person—if he were to _pretend_ they were the same, at the very least—then he had to have faith in his own tastes, he supposed.

“You’ve got it,” she said with a grin as she headed to the back. 

“Mary,” Dorothea offered as the waitress left. 

“Pardon?”

“Her name is Mary. She’s trying to make it in the opera.” Of course Dorothea would know. He appreciated the knowledge, on some level. 

“Ah. Is she any good?” he asked. 

Dorothea gave a good-natured shrug. “She’s got the spirit.”

“… And the voice?” 

“Well. A bit more practice never hurt.” She took a sip of her tea. It was as if they had a repertoire, here, a means of bouncing a conversation back and forth. 

Ferdinand had always wanted—rather desperately—to be friends with Dorothea. This, like much of the past two days, almost felt like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare, if he were being honest. He refrained from pinching himself, and instead thought again to the waitress currently busying herself in the back.

There was a unique challenge, here—a resurgence of the same reason he had not dared enter any shops on his walk through the city. Hubert had made it clear he did not want anyone outside of the Black Eagles to know of Ferdinand’s condition, but how could he possibly manage that? Was he to expect someone like Dorothea to inform him of every relationship he had ever formed? Maybe it was easier for someone like Dorothea—who had at least known him at the Academy—to adapt to whoever he was now, but how would the palace maids? The tailors he had frequented? The soldiers he had served with? What would be done with all of the people who believed that they knew some little part of him? 

Mary returned in only a moment, tray in hand. 

“Here you are!” 

Ferdinand’s “usual” order appeared to be an apple strudel and tea to match. It was a relief to know that though the Church of Seiros was gone, Seiros tea, at least, was still perfectly obtainable. It was another connection with this other Ferdinand; he suspected that he should have found that comforting. 

“Thank you, Mary,” he said, reaching for his—

His face paled as he realized he hadn’t brought any money. He didn’t even know where his coin purse would be. 

Dorothea, known mind-reader that she was, spoke up. “Don’t worry about it. My treat.” 

She procured a handful of coins from a beautiful purse. Mary accepted them graciously, the blush returning to her cheeks. It was difficult not to have a crush on renowned opera star Dorothea Arnault, he supposed. 

Mary looked to Ferdinand once more. 

“Everyone’s real glad you’re back, Prime Minister. All the girls miss you when you don’t drop by.” 

Ferdinand wasn’t sure what to say to that—honestly, it took him by surprise. Thankfully, he didn’t have to say anything; Mary offered an attempt at a curtsy before skipping away, a song on her lips. 

Dorothea was, tragically, not wrong in her assessment. She did need to practice.

Ferdinand sighed once she was out of earshot, running a hand through a shorter section of his hair.

“Yet another wound to my noble pride.” It had not been his intention for Dorothea to pay for his meal. She raised an eyebrow at him. 

“… Thank you, Dorothea.” 

“That’s more like it,” she commented, taking a bite of her turnover. And then, “But really, don’t mention it. Your “noble pride’s” been through a lot worse, anyways.” 

He feared she was right. 

Dorothea raised a hand, then, and muttered a few words Ferdinand did not recognize. When he looked at her for an answer, she simply said, “It’s a silence spell. We’ve got what you could call an arrangement with the owners to keep out potential eavesdroppers.” 

Seemingly certain they were protected, she leaned forward slightly, setting her hands under her chin. Ferdinand now had the sinking feeling this was going to shift into something of an interrogation, though in a different spirit than Hubert had that morning.

“You know,” she said, “I could try telling you little things about yourself, to see if it helps you remember anything. Sometimes people with amnesia get their memories back, right? Maybe that’ll happen to you.”

“If you would like.” He was growing more and more tired of being told about himself, but that was irrational, was it not? “I will admit, I am rather curious what spurred me to grow out my hair.” 

“It was an accident, mostly,” she said, shrugging. “Things got busy, and you stopped taking care of—” she gestured at him, his face, his hair, his clothes. “You ultimately decided you liked it longer. Or maybe it was because Hubie said he’d be sad if you cut it.” She absently waved a hand. “Something like that.” 

“I see.” Did he like it? Who was to say that what Dorothea knew still held true? Every one of the Black Eagles had grown—changed—over the past six years, he was sure. Alterations to their tastes, their routines, their relationships—it would be difficult for that not to occur, given what had happened. He had done so, too, until now. Now, it was him who had regressed. Was he not little more than a child now, playing pretend at Prime Minister, as he had at the Academy? Was he not the boy who shouted his name from rooftops, hoping to garner the attention and respect he mistakenly believed he deserved? 

Dorothea, despite her tendency towards mind-reading, seemed as yet unaware of this particular struggle.

“Hmm, let’s see,” she said. “You’ve developed a taste for coffee, over the years, but only a little bit. You write letters to Petra at least once every fortnight—you say it’s to keep her apprised, but you really just miss her. You’re very particular about the tailors and blacksmiths you frequent, but you always tip them well. I’m sure I could remember the addresses if you give me some time—”

“That’s… that is all right.” 

“That’s not doing anything, then?” she said, as if she were disappointed. It was strange, to see that the two of them had apparently been so close. “Oh, I know! There’s a ball coming up in a few weeks, and you always love playing the social butterfly at those, so that’s sure to trigger something—”

The _ball._ The ball that followed the state dinner. The state dinner where officials were expected to meet and dine together, discussing in no straightforward terms the political plans they were in the process of concocting. Ferdinand’s position as Prime Minister was, inherently, a political one—and politics was all about connections, about people and how to read them, how to please them. Hubert, he thought, had always been able to read people, but had staunchly refused to ever please anyone but Edelgard. Edelgard had been more competent at both—perhaps she was even more competent now—as she knew what her role entailed, though she did not enjoy that deals had to go both ways. She preferred to get her way. 

Ferdinand, however, had prided himself on knowing and performing both of these aspects well. An expert statesman, or so he had hoped. But the foundation of cooperation was built on a mutual knowledge: one had to know how a particular Lord spoke, what they had to offer, what they had to gain, how they hoped to use you as you had to use them. It was a game, to an extent, but one with very real consequences. Considering the extent of political upheaval that Fódlan had suffered, Ferdinand suspected that most—if not all—of those he had been previously acquainted with had now been replaced. That would mean he had to rebuild all of those relationships from scratch; or, more accurately, he would be at an active disadvantage. 

He was now playing a game for which he had lost the rulebook. The sheer scope of it frightened him, overwhelmed him, drowned him. He surely could not be the Prime Minister under these conditions; Edelgard would have no choice but to find a replacement. 

If Dorothea had continued speaking, he had not heard her. He looked up to find her watching him. He tried to pretend his pulse had not quickened once again.

“Ferdie,” she said carefully, “won’t you tell me how you’re feeling?” 

He opened his mouth to speak—

“—Please. Be honest,” Dorothea finished, her eyes locked with his.

His _“perfectly fine, thank you for asking!”_ died on his lips. He tried not to frown, but he was unsure of his success.

“Truthfully,” he said, lowering his voice in spite of Dorothea’s spell, “my body aches. I have bruising and magical burns that make it…” Be honest, she had said. He hated being so vulnerable. Would she know if he lied, or understated the truth? 

“Ferdie.” She watched him over his teacup. She would know. 

He swallowed. It was easier to talk about what was wrong with him physically, at least. “It hurts to breathe, sometimes. I find myself struggling to catch my breath.” As he had on his walk through Enbarr, an activity that was hardly strenuous. “Hopefully it is not noticeable?” 

She shook her head, the gesture small and clearly meant to be reassuring. Ferdinand reached for his tea with hands he would not allow to shake. 

“The wounds sting. Sometimes the pain is biting; other times, less so. And I have these—persistent headaches that vary in intensity somewhere between being gently smothered with a pillow and being speared with a lance. But,” he raised the tone of his voice; he truly could not stand to be so negative. “It is bearable, one way or another. I am already feeling much better, really—”

“Ferdie,” she said again, scolding and sympathetic all at once. “It sounds like you should still be resting.”

“I do not _want_ to rest!” He was growing tired of justifying himself, as if he was not in the midst of losing everything. “Linhardt said I was _fine.”_

That was not what Linhardt had said, exactly, but Dorothea did not need to know that.

Dorothea merely pursed her lips in response. “Sitting through that meeting must’ve been rough.”

A subject change, then. Ferdinand did not know that he liked this topic any better.

“I felt as though I was waiting to speak to the Professor after class, begging to have an entire week’s worth of lectures explained to me because I did not understand a thing. Except instead of the Professor, it is Hubert and the Adrestian Emperor, and instead of a week, it is six years.”

“So, much worse,” she suggested.

“ _So_ much worse.”

“We’ve all been there,” she nodded. “I take it Edie didn’t give you much, then?”

“She had… something more important come up. My presence was not required.” 

“The burdens of being Emperor, I suppose.”

“Something like that.” He was still trying to quiet his heart; he could hardly afford to boil over now. 

“You shouldn’t take it personally, Ferdie,” she chided.

“I am not! I know she is busy!” And what if he had taken it personally? He just wanted to be busy, too. Perhaps it was childish of him, but was that unexpected? 

“You want to be included.” It was not a question; Dorothea already knew the answer.

 _“Yes.”_ If he sounded desperate, then it was only in the spirit of being honest. 

He finally reached for his pastry. He was not hungry, really, but it would have been rude to order food only to let it grow cold—or, at least, colder than it already was. It was expertly made, though he found himself unable to enjoy the flavor to its fullest. He was still trying to think of what he would do, exactly, when he was removed from office. A thought finally occurred to him. 

“Dorothea, do you recall the treats I baked for you? At the Academy?”

She raised her eyebrows, clearly curious as to where this was going. “Of course I do.”

“They were rather tasty, were they not?”

“I have to admit, they were.” It was a careful answer, one that indicated she did not understand what was meant by this new subject. 

“Do you think I have a budding career as an amateur baker?” he asked, jokingly. Or, he had intended to joke. Dorothea did not laugh—only peered at him curiously.

“Maybe so. Though I imagine you’ll be too busy with your first career to add a second, hm?”

This gave him pause. “You are quite right. I could hardly compete with the professionals, could I? I suppose I could teach horseback riding, or I could perhaps be like Mary and attempt to join the opera—”

His thoughts were running away from him.

“Ferdie—”

“Though it would likely be difficult if I remained in Enbarr—”

 _“Ferdie.”_

Ferdinand stopped, searching her face. He found nothing but concern in her eyes, and he was, in the moment, surprised to learn that he had voiced such thoughts, rather than keeping them in his head where they belonged. 

“Where is this coming from?” Dorothea asked. She sounded as though she were walking on eggshells. Perhaps she was. 

“Is it not obvious?” Ferdinand questioned, trying to keep his voice in line. “Fódlan needs a Prime Minister, and I am… unfit. Edelgard will find a replacement soon; we both know it. She has to.” 

“Ferdinand.” 

He was not sure that she had ever referred to him by his full name. It was like being scolded by a parent. 

“There is not,” Dorothea began, “and has never been, anyone better suited to being the Prime Minister than you. You work ethic rivals Hubie’s. That was true even at the Academy, and if I know it, then so does Edie. Sure, you might be in a tough spot right now, but you’re resourceful, yeah? You’ve got a real talent for adapting to the unknown, you know? And you always have. One little accident doesn’t change that.” 

An accident. His life had been destroyed because of an accident. In any event, she was unlikely to let this subject go, now that she had so expertly sifted through his emotional state. 

“I am just—I am trying to put the people first. They deserve a Prime Minister that is competent. Knowledgeable. Not one who did not even know Fódlan had been unified when he woke up yesterday.” 

“Ferdie. The people love you. We love you.” 

“Maybe you—they—loved _him._ I… I am nothing but an imposter, standing in the place of a man who fought and survived an entire war to even be here. You knew _him,_ maybe, but how do you know me? If—if I cannot remember an entire war, something so… life-changing, so deeply horrifying, how can we possibly be the same person? I do not—I do not even know why I sided with Edelgard to begin with!” Ferdinand was speaking faster than he could think, and as what he had said dawned on him, a hand shot up to cover his mouth, and he redirected his gaze to the floor. What he had just said could have been regarded as treason to the wrong ears. 

Were Dorothea’s the wrong ones? Hubert’s likely were—would she tell him what he had just said? Duke Aegir had been imprisoned, Marquis Vestra had been _killed,_ and Goddess knows who else had suffered similar fates in the wake of Edelgard’s rise to power. Ferdinand knew his father had been a greedy, wicked man besides, but what had Hubert’s father done? As far as Ferdinand knew—had been able to determine from Hubert's earlier words—his damning action had been his support of the Insurrection of the Seven. In short, he had opposed the Emperor. 

He hadn’t meant to explode, to open up like this to anyone, but there was just so much. If they had not liked him when all he did was smile, encourage, and persevere, they would not like him scraping at the depths of despair, unable to decide if he even _wanted_ to recover who he had once been. 

Drowning, drowning, drowning. 

A hand rested on his arm, pulling his hand down to the table where it was then held there. Dorothea was watching him, her eyes noticeably wider. Her lips were moving, he realized. 

“Ferdie? Ferdie, it’s okay. You’re okay. I—I’ll try to explain, if you want.”

He had, at least, dragged his eyes off of the floor, but all he could manage in response was a silent nod, still trying to get his breathing under control. His head hurt. He rubbed at an eye with the hand that Dorothea was not holding, and he found it wet with budding tears. 

“I—I’m sorry,” Ferdinand stammered after a moment, moving to recover his hand from beneath hers. He could save this—he could laugh it off as a joke, if he tried hard enough. He had not meant it. Dorothea did not let him—she held his wrist, instead, her grip firm but gentle. 

“Don’t. I asked you to be honest.” Ferdinand saw her lips move more than he heard her words, her voice faint.

“I am afraid I have disappointed you,” he said, trying to keep from stumbling over his own words. “We were just supposed to have tea and pastries, and I have—”

“Ferdie, we both know this could not have been a normal teatime.” 

“I know.” His voice was miserable in his own ears, but it was a necessary admittance.

“It helps to talk about it.”

“Does it?”

She simply nodded, her earrings jingling in the process.

“I shall… take your word for it.” 

He certainly didn’t feel better for having said it—on the contrary, it brought every tangled emotion he was grappling with to the surface, with the added knowledge that he was now burdening Dorothea with a weight she surely did not need. And that did not even take into consideration his statement that had bordered on treason.

This was his mess—and a mess it certainly was—and he needed to fix it. Perhaps this was not a lesson his father and the nobles around him had intended to teach, but it was the one he had learned all the same. 

Stand on your own. Do not be a burden. 

And he had stated it accurately, earlier. Surely this was an immense disappointment—among other things—to all of them. Edelgard, Dorothea, Linhardt. Hubert. All of them, inconvenienced. In actuality, it was likely far, far worse than an inconvenience, but he could not bring himself to use a harsher word. 

Dorothea spoke again, after a moment. Ferdinand could not recall a time he had ever heard her speak with such sincere emotion, and he knew in his heart that he did not deserve it. 

“I know it’s impossible for us to know what you’re going through right now, and… Well, I’m sure you don’t have the best frame of reference for us, either, but we’re—we’re here for you. It sounds cheesy, but it’s true.”

Ferdinand stared at his partially eaten pastry. Dorothea finally released his wrist. 

“We’d miss you if you weren’t around, you know. Edie, Cas, Bern. Petra would miss your letters in Brigid, if you stopped writing. Lin would, too, even if he’s bad at showing it. And you may be a _bee,_ but that bee is my best friend, yeah? And there are others, too, but…” 

She sighed. They both knew who she’d left out. Still, Ferdinand was stuck on her words, her fondness, her claims of friendship and her small inside jokes that he could only partially put together, a puzzle lacking all of the pieces. 

“Honestly,” she continued, running a hand across her face, “I’m not sure what Hubie would do without you. He’s not always the best at showing it, but he’s been worried sick.”

“He is certainly… different, from how I remember.” 

Ferdinand was reminded of the feeling of Hubert’s lips on his forehead, a gesture meant to be calming. Hubert’s hands in his hair, warm, brushing through his tangles with an unspeakable intimacy. 

Ferdinand’s new memories of Hubert were wholly unlike those of the shadowy, dismal man he was certain may have considered drowning him in Garreg Mach’s fishing pond on at least one occasion. 

“He adores you, really,” Dorothea continued. “He’s probably worried the two of you will fight again, like you did at the Academy.” 

“I never hated him at the Academy,” Ferdinand defended. _“Disliked,_ maybe, but only because he was always unwilling to give any ground—”

“ _I_ know that. Frankly, I know more about that than I ever wanted to.” She gave the exasperated sigh of someone who had been privy to many more conversations with a lovestruck fool than she’d agreed to. “He knows that, too, but…” She drifted off, her expression unreadable with a fleeting furrowing of brows and a small, nigh-imperceptible frown. “Well, like I said. He worries.” 

“That makes two of us, I suppose,” Ferdinand said, stabbing at another piece of pastry. Maybe talking about it _had_ helped—he was beginning to feel marginally better, but only just so. It was nice to have an affirmation from a _mostly_ impartial third party that Hubert cared (and that, chances were, he would not have him hanged for treason for questioning Edelgard); it made it slightly easier to keep convincing himself it might be true. And Dorothea had referred to Ferdinand as her _best friend_ —willingly. Whether it was true or not, she had still said it.

“You’ll work it out, Ferdie. And I mean that—you’ve got friends who are here for you. And who knows? Maybe you’ll start remembering things with time, like I said.”

If those words were repeated enough, eventually, he would have no choice but to believe them. But how much time did he have before they could no longer suffer him? He was silent for a moment, contemplating the different ways he could potentially recover his memories as quickly as possible. 

“Dorothea, could I ask a favor?” 

“Certainly.”

“Could you, ah, tell me more about the past six years?” It felt like a ridiculous question.

“… Did Hubie not tell you _anything?”_ she asked incredulously.

“He told me some things, though it was mostly… broader details. And things that made Edelgard appear… infallible.” 

Ferdinand was well aware of Hubert’s proclivity for taking Edelgard’s side in every possible regard. He felt only the slightest twinge of pride in knowing that, somehow, some version of Ferdinand von Aegir had managed to compete with Edelgard for Hubert’s affections. It was an unbecoming thought— _petty,_ if nothing else—and it was one that, now that he had regained more control of himself, he did not dare voice aloud. He bit his lip to suppress the smirk threatening the corner of his mouth. 

He leaned forwards, then, as if he were just now attempting some form of unsavory gossip. 

“Truthfully,” Ferdinand continued, “Hubert has a fascinating way of removing every interesting detail from a story. He would make for an awful novelist.”

Dorothea laughed at him; it was a marked improvement over the dour mood that had settled over their table. 

“Then let _me_ be the one to tell the story properly and _entirely_ impartially.” She paused for a moment, considering. “Let’s start with the night of the ball—”

They talked for several more hours—or, Dorothea spoke, and Ferdinand listened, interjecting with questions where appropriate. Where Hubert had been sparse on details, Dorothea was full of what Ferdinand suspected may have been subtle embellishments. She tried to focus on positive notes—a particularly rousing speech that Edelgard had delivered (that Ferdinand had helped compose), a celebratory feast after a successful battle (that even Hubert had been convinced to attend), and Ferdinand’s struggle to import pricey, Dagdan coffee just to give as a gift to a man he’d been certain would not appreciate it in the slightest (and how wrong Ferdinand had been).

Of course, most of the details regarding the war were of a more somber nature. It was easy to see the way the subject weighed on Dorothea’s soul, and Ferdinand could not help but wonder how it had weighed on his own. It had been a difficult thing to imagine even when Hubert had told him in his careful, methodical way, and it was no easier this time. He had seen some of the effects the war had left on Fódlan even in the council meeting, however, and no matter how much he wished it, it was not something he could afford to ignore. Even if, despite Dorothea’s affirmations, he was not long for the role of Prime Minister.

Dorothea, too, left out the names of any familiar faces that may have suffered in the face of the Black Eagle Strike Force’s war campaign. Whether it was for Ferdinand’s sake or her own that she did not mention those lost at Myrddin, Derdriu, Arianrhod, Tailtean, Fhirdiad, or in the many pointless, back-and-forth battles during the years prior, he did not know, but he found that he appreciated it. He did not want to know—not yet—if the blood of his schoolmates stained his hands while the memories of them were so fresh in his mind. 

And there was something else that had stuck out near the beginning of Dorothea’s story. 

_Edie was the Flame Emperor,_ Dorothea had said, like that was a simple statement of fact, and Ferdinand had not been able to stifle the way his eyes had widened. He had wanted to yell, honestly, to scream and wonder once again how he could have _possibly_ taken her side after that. But even Dorothea had been vague on the subject, and he had been unwilling to press the matter in the midst of holding back his absolute _outrage._

So he had decided he would ask—perhaps demand—an answer from Hubert, instead. It was something he would surely know, and Ferdinand wondered _why_ Hubert had not thought to mention something so crucially important before. 

If Edelgard was the Flame Emperor—a statement he found _absurd_ —then what had really happened at Remire Village six years ago? With Tomas— _Solon?_ He wished to hear with his own ears what _possible_ justification they had as to how the two were not associated, because they could _not_ be. 

They could not be, because that was absurd. 

He and Dorothea had talked for several hours, and Mary, the waitress, had ultimately been the one to interrupt them long after the sun had set over the city of Enbarr and the moon had risen in its place. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Dorothea, Prime Minister, but it’s almost time for us to close up shop for the night,” she said, collecting their dishes. Ferdinand had managed to finish his pastry at some point, and the two of them had both indulged in another cup of tea (though Ferdinand was adamant that he would repay Dorothea at a later date). 

“That’s all right, Mary,” Dorothea said. “We really should be getting back, don’t you think, Ferdie?”

“Ah, yes, right you are. Thank you for looking after us, Mary.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, sir! We’re just glad you both like it here.” 

He smiled at her before he and Dorothea turned to leave _The Morning Kiss._

Ferdinand was surprised to find a slight chill in the air, water now resting in fresh puddles on the ground after an evening rain, and he almost regretted not having a coat. It was not too far to the palace, at least.

“Well, Ferdie,” Dorothea said once they were several streets down from the shop. “This is where we part ways.” 

“… Do you not wish to walk with me?”

“Not all of us like living in a big, stuffy palace, Ferdie,” she argued. “That, and I have some other things to take care of.”

“Ah,” he said, “I had not considered that. You have my apologies for presuming, and I thank you for your time tonight, Dorothea. It has both improved my mood and helped to… ground me, somewhat.” He afforded her a small bow, which caused her to laugh. 

“It was nothing. I just hope you take what I said to heart.” 

“I will do my best.” 

She smiled at him. “Goodnight, Ferdie.”

“Goodnight, Dorothea.”

They had parted ways for only a moment before Dorothea spun around again, calling out. 

“Oh! I nearly forgot—I had a thought!” 

“Yes?” He was certainly curious what had her so spirited; her excitement was contagious, as it had always been.

“There is one positive thing to come from all of this.”

“Oh?” If there was, he was dying to know it.

“You can see all of the new operas again for the first time,” she said, and he could see her wink even from where he stood. 

“That is… true,” he replied, realization dawning. He hadn’t even had time to think about something so enjoyable, but he was glad to now. “It is something to look forward to, then!” 

She turned again and did not look back this time, striding down the street to her next destination. Ferdinand wondered absently where she could be going and what nighttime business she had to attend to. 

She had left him with a bright spot, though. A small rope in the ocean upon which he had been set adrift. He loved the opera.

\------

The guard was still standing outside of his room when he returned; honestly, Ferdinand could not tell if it was a different man or not. He was dressed in the same manner as the individual that had intruded on the council meeting earlier, marking him, Ferdinand guessed, as more of a House Vestra spy than a true Adrestian Palace guard. He could not speak to the arrangements he had made for his own safety as Prime Minister, but it did strike him as odd—it must have been something that had been placed under Hubert’s purview, and Hubert was not known for doing anything in halves. 

The man did not seem keen on sparing him a greeting, so Ferdinand, unwilling to be rude in return, supplied a single “good evening” to the man before opening the door back, once again, to his room. 

No one was waiting for him, though he was not sure why he thought they would be. The room was empty and dark in the face of nightfall; someone had, however, come in and fixed the bedsheets at some point. He sighed, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Really, he should get up, light the candles, undress and locate nightclothes to put on, brush his teeth, brush his hair—maybe he could find a book to read somewhere in his room, one to pass a few more hours before he could reasonably attempt to fall asleep. 

Ferdinand, however, found himself exhausted physically and emotionally. Maybe he could just fall asleep right now, and continue dealing with the world in the morning.

It occurred to him that he had not eaten today. Not properly, at least: two biscuits in the morning and a pastry for dinner could hardly be considered a meal. He wasn’t hungry, though, not in the slightest; his stomach was too tightly wound, coiled in on itself in knots, any thought of food reserved for the distant future. It was not Dorothea’s fault—she had helped assuage it, ultimately—but it had not gone away. How had Linhardt described it that morning? 

Anxiety. 

But he couldn’t simply _not_ eat. He needed the energy, and surely that sort of thing would help his body recover, wouldn’t it? The hour was not yet late, anyways, and if the Palace were anything like he remembered, the kitchen staff would surely still be willing to serve him a plate. If nothing else, he could perhaps persuade them to take pity on him. 

“Where are you going?” came the voice of the guard as Ferdinand opened the door once again. 

“The kitchens,” he answered plainly, not particularly in the mood for any more pomp and circumstance. “I had hoped to acquire dinner, if that is all right with you.” 

“All right,” the man answered, as if he was contemplating saying _no_ to the Prime Minister. And that was all he said, resuming his position… staring at the wall, Ferdinand supposed. He would never understand those employed by House Vestra. 

As he made his way down the hallway, he heard voices. He could not say who they belonged to, from the pieces he had heard, but he had to pass the door they had originated from on the way to his destination, anyways. If his footsteps slowed, became quiet, even, and he tilted his head ever so slightly, it was absolutely not because his curiosity had gotten the better of his noble sensibilities. He didn’t even know who the room belonged to, these days, and that could be useful information, surely? 

“They’ve been disp—on your orders. Forgive—but I should—gone with them.” 

“No. I need you—. Your spies are comp—, and they are careful. They can hand—selves and anything they find.”

The voices were hushed, and he strained to hear the words in their entirety. Ferdinand inched closed to the door.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Hubert and Edelgard, then. Was this one of their quarters? An office? Had they been working all this time? 

“What would you expect to find, anyways?” Edelgard demanded, her voice harsher than he had yet heard it. “A captive? A corpse? What would be the point of that?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t give me that, Hubert—I don’t believe for a second you haven’t thought about what might be down there.”

“Our reports could be wrong. There might be nothing.”

They were silent for a moment; Ferdinand wondered if they had perhaps cast a spell akin to Dorothea’s to ensure their privacy. But who would be in this section of the palace to overhear them? It was heavily guarded, where it mattered, and it was not often frequented by staff this late at night—

“… You still don’t trust him, do you?” Edelgard spoke again. 

“I find it difficult to—” Hubert stopped. “Is someone there?” 

Ferdinand bit down on his cheek, hard enough to draw blood. Curse Hubert and his otherworldly senses, his unparalleled paranoia. He briefly considered trying to hide, but what good would that do? He was not skilled at being so clandestine; he could be caught hiding, or he could be caught simply standing here. 

He settled for a middle ground, and ultimately walked back the way he had come, a few steps down the hallway when he heard the door open.

“… Prime Minister?” Hubert’s voice called, chillingly formal, and Ferdinand froze in place. He wondered if the other Ferdinand was any better at reading Hubert von Vestra’s tone of voice—if he could find the emotion in it, even when Hubert was trying to obscure it. “Where are you going at this hour?”

Ferdinand did not wish to have this conversation; he wished to go back to his room and hide himself in his sheets until unconsciousness took him. He did not turn around to face Hubert. 

“I am returning to my room—I just finished eating dinner, in the kitchens, and I’m quite tired.” Ferdinand was not sure why he felt compelled to lie, but it was likely better than admitting he had been listening to them. He swallowed before he began to walk again; even if it was not likely to last, he was the Prime Minister right now. He did not answer to the Minister of the Imperial Household.

“Goodnight, Hubert,” he called backwards. Hubert did not reply. 

The guard did not bother addressing him, this time, not even curious as to why he had returned so soon, and Ferdinand was no longer in the mood for speaking with a brick wall. He crossed the threshold of his room as quickly as possible and barely refrained from slamming the door shut, letting his back rest against the wood as he did so. His heart was in his throat, and the worst part was that he could not even determine _why._

He had eavesdropped just the tiniest bit, maybe, but it was not the first time he had done so in his life. It should hardly have him so worked up. There was nothing that should have sent him fleeing back to his bedroom like a frightened child.

There was no proof they were talking about him, after all. They could have been referring to anybody, anybody at all, and yet—

And yet Edelgard’s words had sent a chill through his entire body. 

_A captive? A corpse?_ He was neither of those things. They were not talking about him. He crept over to his bed, pulling the sheets back as he sat on the edge once again. He removed his boots, his cape, his belt, and his vest, unceremoniously dropping them to the floor before he sought to bury himself in the sheets, his headache back in full force. His need for sustenance was long-forgotten—he was not wholly certain he could keep anything down, now. 

_You still don’t trust him, do you?_

Ferdinand rolled over, pulling the sheets higher. It did not matter what he had heard; they were not talking about him.

He did not sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have actually planned for this chapter to be shorter, and instead it's the longest one yet—I love Dorothea, though, so it's what she deserves. Ferdinand, on the other hand, deserves much better, but things still have to get worse before they can get better! 
> 
> Thanks again for all of the support on this, it's completely blown me away!!! And I much acknowledge Lily and Alexz every chapter, because their help has been invaluable and Lily REALLY helped me work through sections I was hopelessly stuck on this time around. 
> 
> You can find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart) I don't post very often, but I currently retweet a lot of Three Houses!


	6. A Rolling Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It storms in Enbarr. Ferdinand remembers how to hurt before he remembers how to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW! The first section of this chapter has a dream sequence that describes torture in vague, amorphous terms, but it's torture nonetheless.

It was dark.

It was _dark,_ suffocating in a way that confused the senses. He could not be sure of anything. He had no idea where he was, who he was, why he was here—just that it was dark, and cold, and his head was going to split at the seams. There was sound, noise, none of it pleasant, screams and cries mixed with the creaking of metal and objects dragging along the stone floors. It was likely better to pretend they did not exist at all. 

There were hands on him, then, grabbing him, pulling him, dragging him away to somewhere he did not want to be, to a place he could hardly parse, poking him, prodding him, taunting him, touching him. Stabbing him. Killing him, he thought, though it was hard to be sure. They wanted something, something important, he knew, but what it was currently escaped him. There was light, now, but it was bright, burning, blinding, so much so he could barely see. 

He screamed, and cried, and bled, but he did not speak. He never spoke. Defiant to the last.

Not that he knew what they were asking anymore; he could hear the questions, but everything was drowned out, submerged, as if he were deep in a bottomless ocean, all sound secondary to the rush of blood in his ears. Faces came into view, but he could not look at them for long, and sometimes there were voices, and both could be painfully familiar, but they never remained for long, and there was nothing to make sense of—he saw glimpses of dark hair and green eyes, this time, but the voice did not match the face, and it was _confusing._ He was somewhat surprised he could even still manage to breathe. He did not want to be here, but he had been given little choice in the matter. 

And then it was dark again, and cold, returned to the cell to repeat the cycle again, and he found he could not force his body to move, if it was even his body at all. He could have simply been a spectator—though a well-informed one—because he knew his blood burned, his heart ached, and his head could hardly think anymore. It was cold, and dark, and whoever’s body this was hurt, and in scattered moments of clarity he knew that it was only a matter of time until they came back to drag him into the light again. 

He was shivering, shuddering, shaking, and it was so very dark. If his voice functioned, he would have called out, possibly, to join the muddied cacophony that never seemed to stop. But what would be the point? 

No one was coming for him. Not for a while, if at all. This was a certainty, hanging over him, a certain, unshakeable dread. How would they even know? 

\------

Ferdinand woke with a start, a strangled scream in his throat. For a brief, terrifying moment, he felt as though he could not breathe, and he was inexplicably, horrifically _afraid._ His room was not cold, but he found he was shaking beneath the covers.

It was the fourth nightmare in so many days. They were always the same, though small details would change. Sometimes he thought he could make out voices, or faces, or the details in the cell; sometimes his torturers or cellmates were people he knew. He could remember seeing people like the Professor, or Captain Jeralt, or his father. Most of the time, however, everything was little more than an ambiguous blur, and any details he’d managed to note faded shortly after waking from yet another unrestful attempt at sleep.

Ferdinand sat up slowly, not yet cognizant enough to take in his surroundings, still shaking off the remainder of a sleep that had left him feeling… ill. A sense of dread hung over him as he sat there and tried to calm his haggard breaths. And yet, as often happened with dreams, the feeling slowly passed with time. The already-vague details faded until he could no longer appropriately put into words what, exactly, it was that had set his heart beating so quickly, even if he had wanted to. 

It had become something of a pattern since the night he had overheard Edelgard and Hubert’s conversation four days ago. He would toss and turn all night long until his body forced him to sleep for, at most, a few scant hours. He would wake from the same nightmare after the sun had already crested the horizon—though it had been obscured, as of late, by a thick layer of clouds— and he would drag himself to the washroom where he would throw up what little food he’d managed to stomach the night before. It would leave a foul taste in his mouth, so he would brush his teeth and drink from a glass of water while examining just how pale his skin had grown and how bags had begun to form under his eyes. 

He’d return to his room to notice the pot of tea that had previously been ignored, the temperature varying depending on when he’d woken up. Every day so far, Hubert had left a note with the tray, informing Ferdinand of whatever he’d felt was pertinent for that day. Ferdinand did not find them particularly interesting—he much would have much preferred to talk to the man—and Hubert put little effort into spicing up his messages. They were all very mechanical, Ferdinand had determined, detached and strictly informative, lacking any emotion whatsoever. 

In spite of this, Ferdinand did not throw them away. 

The first day after the eavesdropping incident (as Ferdinand was now inclined to think of it), the note—an unfortunate indication that Hubert’s spindly penmanship had not improved much since their Academy days—had simply read: 

_It is likely to rain today. Be mindful._

_HvV_

Ferdinand had not felt particularly inclined to take his advice, at the time. In an effort to find something—anything—to do that would get him out of his room again, he’d ventured into his closet (where the cape and boots he had haphazardly thrown on the floor the previous night had been meticulously returned to their proper place by someone other than himself). He briefly admired the plethora of colored garments ranging from riding attire to formal wear before picking out something perfectly plain to toss on, unable to stop himself from noting the (significantly smaller) section of the closet composed of clothing much darker than anything else that surrounded it. 

Satisfied that his choice of attire would likely keep him from sticking out in a crowd, he’d sat himself down at his vanity. It still took him far too long to recognize himself in the mirror, but he ignored the feeling and shoved a brush through his unruly hair anyways, the instrument tugging roughly at his scalp with every attempt to untangle it. 

His hair had looked only marginally better when he’d finished; Hubert had done a much better job the previous day. He’d been gentler, too. 

_Perhaps I should cut it. It looks strange on me, anyways._

Instead, he had thrown on his boots and gone for a walk, answering truthfully when the guard outside his door had inevitably asked.

The walk was enjoyable enough until, true to Hubert’s word, a downpour began. Lightning had streaked across the sky, thunder following shortly thereafter, and there had been little choice for Ferdinand but to cut his walk short. Returning to his room absolutely drenched and harboring no small amount of disappointment, he had tossed some wood in the fireplace, wrung out his hair in the bathtub, and picked over some kind of already-cooling meat pie he had acquired from the kitchens along the way back as he sat by the fire.

It stormed for the next three days.

The second day after the eavesdropping incident had begun much the same in regards to sleep, nightmares, and illness, except there had been two notes on his tea tray rather than one. He casually gnawed on a biscuit as he examined the slips of paper.

Hubert’s note read:

_Do not go out in the storm._

_HvV_

_P.S., When the rain stops, it could be nice to visit the stables._

Linhardt had also, it seemed, decided that sending a note was better (and likely easier) than actually visiting Ferdinand himself, and so he had received another note that lacked a signature entirely and read in loopy, lazy writing:

_Don’t bother going out in the storm; your lungs are still weak and you may get pneumonia and die. Please have someone deliver a letter to me if anything interesting happens to you—or if you require some kind of medical attention, I suppose._

So walks were apparently now out of the question, as with any other outdoor activities. In an attempt to find something even marginally useful to do with himself, he visited the Imperial Palace’s library and collected as many books as he could fit in his arms before escaping with them back to his room. He spent the day reading, continuing long into the night until his eyes could not bear to stay open any longer. 

Day three was no different than the previous two, continuing to lack any rays of sunlight to indicate the onset of morning. Still, no one had come to visit him. Hubert’s letter read:

 _Council meeting today—wear something nice. Utilize the same tactics as last time._

_HvV_

_P.S., It is meant to stop raining tomorrow. We can meet at the stables and discuss our strategy moving forward._

As if Ferdinand would have forgotten. He selected an outfit that was Imperial red, and he once again contemplated cutting his hair as he attempted to force it into a braid in the hopes that it would hide the fact that it needed to be washed again soon. It turned out better than expected—his fingers seemed to move on their own, and while the result was still somewhat sloppy, it was passable enough. There wasn’t much he could do to address the growing circles beneath his eyes—he simply had to hope that no one would take notice.

He nearly fell asleep twice in the meeting itself.

Once again, no one had been interested in addressing a man who could not reply, and the dreary weather had only served to exacerbate how tired he felt. Edelgard and Hubert had spared him the embarrassment of being caught napping, at least, by chiming in occasionally with a gentle suggestion of “Do you not agree, Prime Minister?” to keep him from nodding off. 

He had tried, once again, to take notes, but found his attention scattered and unfocused to the point of near-uselessness, and no one seemed to be interested in discussing anything of importance today, anyways. His eyes occasionally drifted to Hubert, as if he could somehow discern from across the table why the other man had not visited him for three days. Perhaps his mostly-accidental eavesdropping had not been taken well.

Though it was not as if Ferdinand had taken what he’d heard very well, either. 

There was no chance to speak with either Hubert or the Emperor after the meeting’s conclusion. Hubert had fled the scene, and Edelgard had departed in the midst of a conversation with the Minister of Education. The two of them were apparently heading to the same destination, on their way to attend a meeting on education that Ferdinand could not help but feel he should have been attending, as well. 

Ferdinand returned to his room feeling as though he were invisible, and he wondered what other crucial meetings he was missing with each passing day. At the very least, there should have been piles of letters that required responses from him—and yet, the fact that nothing was ever mentioned left Ferdinand with the distinct impression that perhaps he was not needed, after all. The Empire seemed to be functioning perfectly well without its Prime Minister. 

He was somewhat surprised upon his return to discover that a takeout box had been left on his desk, accompanied by a small note and, surprisingly, two tickets to a performance by the Mittelfrank Opera Company, dated next week. 

_Sorry I couldn’t stay to chat, but here’s a little pick-me-up for you, what with all the bad weather. Hope you’re healing well. The tickets are yours to use as you see fit, but I think you’d enjoy the show._

_Dorothea~_

She had drawn a heart next to her name.

The sandwich she’d brought was eaten with some amount of success as Ferdinand finished a book he’d never read before, detailing Brigid weapons and fighting techniques that he found absolutely fascinating. He was not, however, as tired as he’d hoped for by the end of it, and the rain was coming down hard enough against his window to discourage any attempts at sleep.

Instead, he went through his desk that night, investigating all of the letters his other self had thought worth keeping. There were letters from Petra, likely the same ones Dorothea had mentioned several days before, where she informed him of the workings of her life and how she often missed her friends. A few were from an excited Caspar, though he never dated them, so it was impossible to tell how old they were. Some from Bernadetta, who had apparently been traveling as of late, detailing the incredible things she had seen (along with things she thought Ferdinand and Hubert would enjoy, like small trinkets or souvenirs or even simply wildlife she had seen). The latest letter, dated three weeks ago, seemed to imply she had been intending to return to Enbarr soon.

There was one from his father, who was locked away in a cell somewhere, that was dated only a month ago. He begged for a visit from his kind, forgiving son, and bade him have a happy birthday (though the letter had been sent two weeks in advance of the date itself, it seemed, and had arrived right before Ferdinand had left for Leicester).

Ferdinand considered tossing it in the fire, but he could not bring himself to. Briefly, he considered writing back, but that thought was even more short-lived, and he could hardly think of what he would even say, so he simply folded it back up and returned it to its drawer. He found it slightly comforting that this was, it seemed, a dilemma not so dissimilar to the one his other self had encountered.

He kept digging.

There was an entire drawer filled with receipts—not organized in the slightest—detailing custom purchases from various tailors and armorsmiths, packages of more expensive teas and—more curiously—coffees, as well as anything else Ferdinand had once deemed worth keeping for any reason.

But while his purchase history was interesting, it was not what he was looking for. He searched under the pile for something else, mildly pleased when he found it. The desk was unchanged from the one his father had used, and there had been a time as a child when he had—completely unwittingly—stumbled upon a false bottom in one of the drawers. Ferdinand had not been given the time to investigate what his father had stored in there—and, at nine years old, he was hardly interested—because his father had seen him do it, and…

Well, suffice it to say he had not been pleased.

Now, though, there was no one who could be upset at him for snooping into his own correspondence.

It did not particularly surprise him to find a stack of letters beneath, neatly compiled and bundled together. A part of him wondered if he would find something he’d wish he hadn’t—the dark dealings of Adrestia’s Prime Minister, perhaps, following in the footsteps of his father down a path of corruption and dirty dealings.

Ferdinand ultimately decided that even if it was something unsavory—as devastating as that would be—he would have to know the details if he were to have any hope of rectifying his own failings in the future.

As he began to read, he discovered that they were not, in fact, anything of the sort.

They were love letters.

At least, that was the only way he could think to describe them. All written in the same thin, scrawling hand as the notes delivered with his morning tea, but the tone of these was completely different. All of them were signed with a simple “Hubert,” as if there were any doubt as to who had penned them.

Honestly, Ferdinand had not thought Hubert von Vestra as being capable of something so... flowery. Some of it was rather macabre, but that was to be expected.

There were entire passages—entire _letters_ —dedicated to praising Ferdinand for his incredible optimism, to noting how striking he had looked on the battlefield, bloodstained and beautiful, to wondering how Ferdinand was so preeminently, so stunningly _Ferdinand,_ even in things that were so straightforwardly simple, like the way he tied his bootlaces, or how he sipped from his teacup.

Hubert compared him with the sun, radiant and blinding, at one point stating—rather plainly, in a way that Ferdinand found shocking—that he was not afraid to burn. There were letters detailing how Hubert longed to run his ruined fingers through his hair, if Ferdinand would let him, how he desired to make him smile his genuine smile, how he longed to see what clever solutions his mind could produce to even the most complex of problems.

Ferdinand took the stack of letters with him as he shifted to the bed, the storm still raging outside, and he read through all of them. Once. Twice. Three times. Until the early hours of the morning. He marveled at some of the little things he learned about Hubert von Vestra, his sheer thoughtfulness chief among them. For a man who otherwise wrote purely with the sake of practicality in mind, it seemed that he deliberately slowed his otherwise frantic writing to afford special care to the way that Ferdinand’s name was represented on the page. 

And there was the way he referred to certain things, such as gifts that had been attached to the letter at the time, or the manner with which he described Ferdinand’s favorite teas, or how he spoke of procuring tickets for an opera Ferdinand had accidentally overlooked in the midst of his work, or carving time from both of their schedules to afford for a horseback ride into the country and a picnic. He could not understand Ferdinand’s penchant for flowery soaps, or fruit-filled tartlets, or pieces of armor he would certainly never use, but there was scarcely a detail that Hubert failed to take note of if he thought it would make Ferdinand _happy._

Ferdinand could only hope his other self had not squandered such an opportunity, and that he had provided Hubert with some amount of happiness in turn.

There was one letter he found particularly interesting, seemingly written in apology for an action that was never explicitly named. It was shockingly genuine in asking for forgiveness, and it made no excuses. Ferdinand found himself reading and rereading it more so than the others, if only because he had not known Hubert to ever be apologetic—the Hubert he had known had possessed an unshakeable confidence and an unwillingness to acquiesce to any wrongdoing, always frighteningly certain in his belief that he had never once done anything wrong. This was an altogether different kind of devotion, a plea asking Ferdinand to understand that Hubert had never done anything like this before, that he was attempting to learn, and to adapt. It was not an excuse—it was a promise. An insistence that he had always detested making the same mistake twice, and that Ferdinand was more than worth the cost of a little pride.

It was such an odd feeling, to think that someone so desperately loved a person who might not even exist anymore.

He ultimately fell asleep surrounded by the letters, still clutching one of the only apologies he had ever received in his hand, wondering if anyone would make such a promise to him again. If anyone would ever again write his name with such care.

\------

The fourth day was the worst yet. 

Ferdinand woke amongst his pile of letters a pitifully short amount of time later, breaths ragged as he tried to forget the terrible voice in his dream bearing Hubert’s face. The rain had stopped, as predicted, but Ferdinand could hardly find the energy to care as he pushed himself out of bed and past his waiting tea tray, feeling positively ill. Looking at himself in the washroom mirror, he wiped at the thin veil of sweat that had pooled on his brow and observed the looping braid across his shoulder that was now in complete disarray. 

Ferdinand looked _awful._

 _Almost as if you have not slept in four days,_ his brain harshly informed him.

He contemplated cutting his hair again as he rubbed at his eyes, his headache sending a seething pain behind them as he did so. He recalled, then, just how much Hubert had written that he’d loved his hair, and instead simply splashed water on his face. Tea would calm him down. It always did.

Returning to the bedside, Ferdinand examined the tray. As with every other day, it contained a pot of tea and one singular, folded sheet of paper. As he reached for the note with one hand and the delivered teacup with the other, he thought for a brief moment how lovely it would be to receive a letter like the ones scattered across his comforter. Unfolding the note, his eyes flickered over Hubert’s penmanship as he put the words together.

_Something has come up; I will be busy today, and we will have to reschedule. Do not visit the stables without me._

_HvV_

That was how it was, then. There were no romantic declarations, no flowery words. The words possessed not even a hint of affection, and here was yet another thing he was looking forward to, pushed aside as if it were—

Ferdinand’s other hand extended too far. It connected with the teacup with far too much force, and he could only watch as it slipped from the tray, liquid already spilling. He tried to catch it, but he was too slow.

 _“Shit!”_ he hissed as the cup connected with the wooden floor, shattering into so many irreparable pieces. Porcelain shards were sent everywhere as his morning tea soaked into the wood and the edges of the rug. 

It was perhaps, in hindsight, one thing too many to happen so early in the morning. 

The note was already crumpled in his palm, and his jaw quivered, but Ferdinand would not cry over spilt tea. 

It would have to be cleaned before the tea stained the rug too deeply, or someone cut themselves on a shard, but Ferdinand could not find it in him to be concerned right now. 

Instead, all he could find was something akin to anger. 

He had tried to be patient, he thought. To learn as he went, to ease back into a foreign life, but he was tired, _so tired,_ of being dismissed, avoided, led on, lied to. Hubert von Vestra was _busy_ —busy enough to cancel plans, and busy enough not to visit for four days. Not busy enough to not write him these horrid notes, a pitiful approximation of his earlier work. Not busy enough to not sit by his bedside for two weeks when he mistakenly believed that the Ferdinand von Aegir who had been brought back from Leicester, injured but alive, was _his_ Ferdinand von Aegir. Now, without his memories, he was something to be pushed aside, to be discarded when convenient. Hardly worth speaking to. Hardly worth writing to. 

Though perhaps he should not have been surprised—it was not as if this was new. As much as he had tried to ignore it at the time, they had treated him like this at the Academy, too. Bumbling, blinding, boisterous Ferdinand who was perfectly harmless and perfectly easy to ignore. Perhaps it was foolish of him to think that anything had changed. That he had found a place for himself. That he was valued. That he was loved. 

_You are overreacting,_ he knew even as he stepped over the destroyed teacup. He decided he did not care, even as he cut his foot on a small piece of porcelain. 

He pulled on his boots anyways and stormed from the room. What he was planning to do, he did not quite know, but he had to do something. If this was not solved now, would it ever be?

“Take me to Marquis Vestra’s office. Right now.” To his credit, the guard outside of his room—finally of some use—simply nodded his head and complied. 

The office was a different room from the one that he had overheard Edelgard and Hubert’s conversation in, though Ferdinand barely noticed as he barged into the room as if he could have possibly belonged there. He did not spare the courtesy of a knock.

A more rational part of his brain had recognized that the chances of Hubert being _in_ his office were slim—now, he was glad he had ignored it. The Minister of the Imperial Household sat at his desk, stern as ever, scanning a document with something that amounted to fervent interest. One of his spies stood beside him, seemingly awaiting instruction after delivering the parchment. 

Hubert’s attention snapped to Ferdinand at once, and Ferdinand thought for a moment that he had been preparing a spell with which to dissolve a potential intruder. The recognition was quick, however; any hint of a spell dissipated from Hubert’s hands, and the Prime Minister’s name was already on his lips. Ferdinand, however, was not yet willing to address him. 

The spy’s attention was on him, as well, and Ferdinand met where he approximated her eyes should have been behind her mask.

“Leave.”

The spy shrank at the singular word before slinking from the room, leaving them alone. 

“Ferdinand,” Hubert tried again, something Ferdinand thought could have almost amounted to outrage building on his face. He had never been a man who enjoyed being interrupted. “You cannot be—”

“Hubert,” was all Ferdinand said, and somehow, he actually gave the other man pause. When Hubert did not speak again, Ferdinand dared to continue.

“Who am I?” he asked. The question was simple, rhetorical, some might say, and his voice was not kind.

Hubert, for his part, looked briefly confused. There was, perhaps, an emotion hidden there that could have constituted worry, but Ferdinand elected to ignore it.

The response was tentative, at best. “Is that a trick question?”

 _“Who am I?”_ he demanded again, placing emphasis on each word. 

Regardless of his expression, Hubert’s voice did not waver; it was as smooth and snide as ever. Then Ferdinand would not waver, either. 

Hubert met his eyes. The uncertainty was still there, but he made a show of being unintimidated. 

“You are Ferdinand von Aegir. Prime Minister of Fódlan.”

“Ah. So you have not simply forgotten, then.”

“Ferdinand, whatever this is, I don’t have the time for it. I need to be—” 

“You will make time.” Ferdinand did not raise his voice; it helped, he thought, that he had a momentary height advantage, standing over Hubert as he sat at his desk. A muscle in Hubert’s eye twitched, and it was obvious he was still not sleeping well, either. Ferdinand now knew the feeling.

Hubert stood, then, and moved as though he were simply going to leave regardless of the Prime Minister’s presence. Ferdinand blocked his path, placing his body in front of the door. 

“You said it yourself, Hubert—for the time being, at least, I am the Prime Minister. As such, you will make time.”

At the recognition of raw anger, Ferdinand watched a hint of uncertainty pass over Hubert’s sharp features once again. The other Ferdinand was not quick to anger either, then. _This_ Ferdinand, however, felt that at this moment he had suffered quite enough. 

He produced the note from earlier, crumpled into illegibility. 

“What is the meaning of this?”

“That is what this is about? I’m sorry that I had to cancel, but there were—”

“More important things, I am sure.” 

_“Yes.”_ It was a plea to be released; to be granted the ability to leave the room and seek out whatever it was that was so much more important than Ferdinand himself. Unfortunately, Ferdinand was no longer feeling merciful.

"What do you mean, that I cannot visit without you, exactly? Am I a child in danger of being kicked by a horse? Do you think I’ve forgotten where the stables are?” 

“Hardly,” Hubert quipped, more than a little dismissive. “I only meant to keep you safe.”

This was not what he should have said, and, out of every possible explanation, Ferdinand, somehow, had not considered this one.

“Keep me _safe?”_ he could not help but scoff. “How does any of this—no, do not answer that. Answer this, instead.” Ferdinand took a moment to breathe; he would not raise his voice.

“Do you trust me?” he asked instead.

“Of course,” Hubert responded far too quickly, the words not so much spoken as delivered in an exhale. This was almost too much.

“You are a liar,” Ferdinand breathed back. “I heard you. You and Edelgard both.”

“You misheard.” Not _misunderstood._ Not _we were not talking about you, Ferdinand, you have been worrying over nothing._ Misheard. 

“Did I?” A better part of him wished to accept this as truth, but he found he was too tired to humor it. He had not misheard.

“Yes.”

“Then why, exactly, will you not allow me to do any work of substance? Why does that guard ask me where I am going whenever I dare to leave my room?” He was afraid if he stopped, Hubert would interrupt, and he would not allow him to take this from him yet. 

“Why do you avoid me to the point that I could not ask you a question even if I wanted to? Why am I _unable_ to visit the stables on my own?”

“You were recently injured,” Hubert hissed, as if that were an acceptable reason right now.

“I am not allowed to tell anyone what has happened. I am told not to speak in the few meetings I am graciously allowed to attend, and I am uninvited from meetings that I belong in. You have me monitored at every moment, and I suspect you have me followed when I go on walks, as well. You will not spend time with me, and yet I am never allowed to be alone."

“If I am able to find you at all, you provide answers to my questions that are vague and unhelpful at best—or are somehow a means of interrogating me, at worst,” he continued. “And I simply wish to know _why._ I am trying to—I don’t know. Trying to relearn every notable event of the past six years of my life for the sake of my work—for the people I am supposed to be governing, and for the friends who are supposed to rely on me. Every time I reach out, however, you or—or Edelgard seem to stand in my way. It is as if you are determined to lock me into a position of absolute uselessness, and I am beginning to wonder if I was ever useful at all!” This statement was neither calm nor measured—his voice had grown steadily louder.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert tried to begin. He looked surprised, as if he could not dare imagine that this poor, lacking Ferdinand had managed to find so many things to complain about. As if he wished to be anywhere right now but here. 

Ferdinand could not blame him for that one.

“I am not finished,” Ferdinand said. “It has been _six years_ and you are still, somehow, keeping secrets. Have I been nothing but a figurehead all this time, then? A Prime Minister in name only, kept in the dark about the workings of the Emperor he serves?” 

“Ferdinand, you are being absurd—”

Hubert had never been gifted in the art of de-escalation. 

“Am I?” He gritted his teeth to prevent his jaw from shaking, and his nails began to dig into his palms. There was more yet to say.

“For all I know, you did this to me!” Ferdinand spat. “It would be a rather perfect plan, I suppose, if you and Edelgard were tired of not getting your way. Hit the Prime Minister over the head with a rock and seal him in his room so he cannot do anything to interfere. It is going surprisingly well for you, I should think.”

Ferdinand likely would have regretted this, were he not so riled up, for Hubert’s face grew paler than it already was, and he looked as though he might be sick. The brief silence that followed as Hubert swallowed was tangible, uncomfortable, and cold. 

“Is that what you think?” Hubert said, the words were barely audible. Hubert von Vestra, for all he tried to hide it, had a heart, and Ferdinand had taken a hammer to it.

A shame that Ferdinand was hurt, too. Otherwise, he may have been inclined to stop. 

“I do not know _what_ to think, Hubert! All I know is that it feels like you _desperately_ want me out of the way. I know now that you do not trust me, and neither does Edelgard. Dorothea seems to, but perhaps even that is a ruse meant to mislead me. It is a familiar feeling, honestly, being distrusted—one that I am well-acquainted with. And yet you have told me—assured me—that things were different between us now. That, somehow, you _loved_ me—and if that is truly the case, then I am all the greater fool for believing it.” 

A soft exhale. Another whisper. “I do love you.”

“Tell me what you were talking about that night.”

Silence.

“Tell me where you are running off to in such a hurry.” 

_Silence._

_“Hubert.”_

“I cannot,” he said finally, clenching his jaw. His shoulders slumped, as though he were disappointed in himself. 

Fine. If that was how it was going to be. 

“Then I refuse to be herded around any longer. Regardless of my condition, I am still the Prime Minister—not some kind of prisoner that you get to direct about as you please. I will leave.” 

“Ferdinand, you cannot.” Hubert did not look happy to have said it. Ferdinand was even less happy to have heard it.

“Then you will _tell me what you were discussing.”_

“I _can’t._ There are factors at play here that you do not understand—”

 _Then explain them to me!_ Ferdinand wanted to scream, wanted to grab Hubert by his collar and shake him until he understood what it was _like_ to be trusted with absolutely nothing, to be made a spectator of your own life. 

Instead, his hands simply shook. “Perhaps this is the worst part—I cannot even decide how you feel, because sometimes you are—” he struggled to find an appropriate word. 

“Loving.” A pause. “And sometimes you look at me as though I am a complete stranger, which I would at least understand, given what has happened, but everyone keeps trying to convince me otherwise. I understand that I am nothing compared to this other grander, wiser, more beautiful Ferdinand von Aegir—”

Ferdinand cut off his own thought, exasperated. “But I thought, at the very least, I could trust you to be honest with your opinion of me. You never seemed to have an issue before.” He had always known precisely what Hubert had thought of him at Garreg Mach. No longer. 

“That is not _true,”_ Hubert said, because he could not simply be _honest,_ and he actually dared to reach for Ferdinand’s sleeve. “But if you do not wish to be with me, I understand, given that you no longer have the memories of—”

Ferdinand wrenched his arm away.

“You are _unbelievable!”_ And there was no mistaking it—this was screaming. 

“I have tried, _desperately,_ to reach out to you, and you—you have rebuffed me. And that is _fine._ If you do not wish to see me, and you do not wish to let me leave, then I shall lock myself in that Goddess-damned room until I waste away, and you can learn to forget me as I have accidentally forgotten you. Perhaps then it will be _fair.”_

Ferdinand was not interested in letting Hubert respond. He swung the door to the office open, and when Hubert reached for him again, perhaps with an apology on his lips, Ferdinand slammed the door in his face. The sound was loud enough that everyone on the floor surely now knew of their spat.

Ferdinand did not care.

He did exactly as he said he would, in the end; he returned to his room. The guard was still there.

“I am the Prime Minister of Fódlan,” he sternly proclaimed, as if he did not feel like crying. “The only person on the _continent_ who outranks me is the Emperor herself, and I want you gone from my doorway. That is an order.”

Ferdinand did not wait for the response he doubted would come, and he shut the door behind him much firmer than necessary. Hubert’s note was still clenched in his hand, his letters were still laid out across the bed, and the tea was still spilt on the floor. As the rage drained from his body, leaving his limbs trembling and a frightening feeling of emptiness, he was only truly certain of one thing.

Goddess, he was tired.

\------

Ferdinand was still face down on the bedspread when there was a knock at the door. He rolled over with a groan, uncertain of how much time had passed since he’d snapped at Hubert.

Perhaps that was a kind way of phrasing it.

“I do not wish to speak with anyone,” he announced, which was only partially true.

Because if it was Hubert looking to apologize—or to continue their argument, which seemed far more likely—then Ferdinand was wholly uninterested.

“O-oh, uh, then I guess I can just… um, go?” 

The voice was high-pitched and so completely uncertain of itself that there was only one person it could be. 

“... Bernadetta?”

“Y-yes! It’s me! I just wanted to—well, it’s been a while since we talked, because I was traveling and all, and I know things are maybe not the best right now, so I wanted to drop by and say hi and—can I come in? It’s kind of weird just talking to the door...”

“Bernadetta—” 

“It’s different when you’re the one on the outside, okay?” she defended, though that was not what Ferdinand had intended to say. When he did not immediately respond, she continued, lowering her voice somewhat. “I just know you always go a little stir crazy when you’re cooped up, and things have probably been pretty weird what with your injuries and everything...”

She trailed off for a moment, as if searching for the confidence to continue. “I, um, also might have heard some of what happened, and it seemed like Hubert really mucked things up, so I just… I thought that maybe you could use a little cheer? You know, from your ol’ pal Bernie?”

Ferdinand’s mind flashed back to the time where she had sprained his wrist as though it were easy—he had deserved it, at the time.

“Truthfully, I believe that I am likely the one who has mucked things up.”

“T-that’s not true, I’m sure! None of this is your fault, after all! He… he does his best, but I’d probably yell at Hubert sometimes, too, if he wasn’t so scary.”

Was Hubert frightening? He tried to be, Ferdinand supposed.

“The door is unlocked,” he offered eventually. He watched her open it only as far as was absolutely necessary before she slid through the crack and let it click shut once more.

“H-hey,” she greeted. “Long time no see, huh?” 

“… Yes, something like that.” While Bernadetta von Varley did not sound much different than she had at the Academy, she certainly _looked_ different. Gone was her bedraggled mop—instead, her hair was neatly combed and carefully styled to frame her face. She looked to be taller, too, and at least marginally less skittish, and despite his sour mood he found it nice to see that, at some point, she had managed to carve out a place for herself among them. 

She took a moment to examine the room, her eyebrows scrunching together, and, judging by her face, it must have been quite a sight.

“Ferdinand, did you break a teacup?”

He did not know why he hesitated to answer. Eventually he settled on a meek, “… I did not mean to.”

“It, uh... it looks like there’s some blood there, too,” she noted, meeting his gaze. “You cut yourself, didn’t you?”

He’d nearly forgotten about his foot. It was not a large cut, admittedly, but it now stung fiercely inside of the boot he had not even bothered to take off. He’d done absolutely nothing to attend to it. 

“Yes,” he admitted. He saw no reason to lie to her about something she’d clearly already figured out.

Bernadetta sighed. “Well, okay, if you give me two seconds I can get my sewing kit—” 

“That hardly seems necessary—” 

“Because if you cut yourself and then kept walking on it, it’s probably made it worse, and—” 

“I really do not think there needs to be such a fuss—” 

“It could get infected, and then it’d be real hard to walk,” she finished, paying little heed to his interruptions. “And you’d probably have to get Linhardt to fix it.”

“... Perhaps I see your point.”

“Okay,” she exclaimed, suddenly perking up. “Be back in a jiff!”

She fled from the room before Ferdinand could say another word, leaving him sitting at the end of the bed as though he’d completely taken leave of his senses. Goddess’ sake, he really did still have his boots on.

If nothing else, Bernadetta’s (welcome) intrusion had pulled him back to some semblance of sanity. He looked over the side of the bed to where the teacup’s remains were, disappointed in himself for letting such a mess continue to litter the floor while he... What? Daydreamed about how miserable he was? There would be time for that later—likely later that night, when he no doubt found himself unable to sleep once again.

Stepping around the bed to the scene of the teacup’s untimely demise with care—and noting that yes, indeed, his foot _did_ hurt—he began to collect some of the larger shards into a pile as he awaited Bernadetta’s return.

She was back surprisingly quickly, especially considering the volume of items she had somehow managed to fit in her arms. There was a sewing kit, a broom and dustpan, cleaning supplies, and no less than four small boxes, precariously stacked but lovingly wrapped in colorful paper, complete with bows.

Ferdinand leapt to her aid to relieve some of the burdens.

“Bernadetta—!”

“B-before you yell, I just thought it would be more convenient to get everything in one trip!”

He was hardly going to yell, but that likely wasn’t worth mentioning.

“You’re on your _feet!”_ she shrieked, then, the statement clearly meant to chastise. “Will you sit down before you hurt yourself even more?”

Rather sheepishly, and with the slightest hint of a wince because it really did hurt, Ferdinand resumed his perch on the end of the bed, setting some of the extraneous objects he’d taken aside.

Bernadetta sat beside him, already digging through her kit—which seemed to contain far more than strict sewing supplies.

“Boots off, mister,” she said.

He obliged, discarding them on the ground as he did so. The sock on the afflicted foot was much more blood-soaked than he’d anticipated, and it would likely need to be thrown out entirely. 

Bernadetta made a face at him before she moved to examine the damage.

“Well, the good news is that you don’t need any stitches, which is actually _really_ good news because it would’ve been really hard to do, but it’ll need a bandage for sure.”

“I did not know you had medical experience, Bernadetta.”

"Oh, I don’t! Not like Linhardt, or anything, but I’m pretty good at sewing so it just… Well, it was a good skill to have, during the war. Sometimes it still comes in handy.”

That hardly explained why she kept disinfectant and bandages beside her assortment of colored threads, but perhaps it was best not to press. Regardless, Bernadetta got to work—she applied the disinfectant to a towel before wiping most of the blood away to inspect the cut itself. Ferdinand squeezed his eyes shut at the stinging, but managed to otherwise preserve at least a shred of his dignity as Bernadetta procured a pair of tweezers and managed to locate the tiniest shard of teacup that had lodged itself in the sole of his foot with a triumphant “aha!” It was almost impressive that such a small thing had managed to be such a nuisance. 

After that, she wrapped his foot once, twice in a bandage, and that was that. 

“Thank you, Bernadetta.”

“Whew, don’t mention it.”

“I suppose I should clean up the rest of the mess I have made—”

“Wait! I—I wanted to give you something, first. Or…” she bit her lip as she glanced at the other packages she’d brought. “Maybe a few somethings?” 

“It’s quite alright, Bernadetta—” he tried to say, but she was already fumbling for something. It took her a moment of searching pockets, but finally she produced it—a small, artfully embroidered sunflower that fit perfectly between her fingers.

“F-for you,” she said as she proffered it, her gaze on the floor.

“… Why?”

“B-because!” She lowered her voice before she continued, “Because you lost your memory, and it m-must be awful, to feel like you don’t know anybody anymore. Or… or maybe that nobody knows you? I—I don’t know, I was just thinking, and—”

Ferdinand was not sure what to say to that. It left him speechless.

“Oh, you hate it! I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have bothered, or tried to tell you how you’re feeling, stupid Bernie—” 

“No, no, Bernadetta,” Ferdinand said softly. “It’s lovely.” 

“Y-you think so?” 

“Yes, I—you are sure you want to give it to me?”

“W-well, yeah. I made it for you. Hubert has one, too, but it’s a violet, and it’s—well, I gave it to him for a different reason.”

“You gave one to Hubert?” Ferdinand found this more than a little intriguing. He carefully took the sunflower and examined it—a pin had been attached to the back.

She nodded.

“And he wears it?”

“I-It’s not nice to tease, Ferdinand—”

“I am not teasing! I think it’s nice. I had just never realized that Hubert—” That Hubert what? Was soft? Had a heart? He had learned all of these things from the letters that were still scattered over his bed, but he could not bring himself to voice it aloud. Bernadetta apparently did not need him to.

“He... has his moments,” she said. And then, “A-anyways, I… I just thought it might help. To know that somebody was thinking about you. Because even without some memories, you’re still the same old Ferdinand, I think. Just like Bernie.”

“I do not know, Bernadetta. You seem to have changed quite a bit.”

“… Not _that_ much.” 

“Well, thank you very much for the gift,” Ferdinand said, pinning the flower to his shirt. “I will wear it with pride.” 

She smiled at him. “The—the other gifts are… uh… souvenirs, mostly. I couldn’t help buying some things that reminded me of you, especially since it was your birthday and everything—” 

There had been so much going on, Ferdinand had hardly even realized his birthday had passed. Yet, as far as his birthdays went, spending this one quite literally comatose was still somehow not the worst he had ever had.

“You don’t have to open them now, though! Maybe after I’ve left. Or just when you need some cheering up.”

She took another moment to look around the room again. “You know, you’ve, uh… you’ve made kind of a mess. 

“I… suppose I have.” 

“Well, you’ve always been happiest when you’ve got something to do, yeah? So maybe we can clean up a bit, and then we can figure something else out?”

Ferdinand could hardly disagree with her, and so they had gotten to work. For his part, Ferdinand had finally cleaned up the teacup, taking painstaking care to collect every piece of fallen porcelain before using some of Bernadetta’s supplies to scrub at where the rug had stained. 

Bernadetta had been more interested in collecting the letters from the bed. 

“Are these from Hubert?” she had asked from above him, curiously inspecting one.

He had nodded before realizing she could hardly see him from where he sat on the floor. “Yes.”

“Some of these are… really sweet, actually. I probably shouldn’t be reading them, should I?” 

“That is up to you,” Ferdinand said. 

“They’re not my letters! Y—you want to keep them, right?” 

He paused in his scrubbing, taking a moment to answer. “… I think so, yes.”

“Good. It… it must’ve been really hard for him to write some of these.”

 _Perhaps,_ he had thought. A comfortable silence fell between them, then.

“Okay,” Bernadetta said once the Prime Minister’s quarters were back in a presentable state, “So now we just have to find some work for you to do, right? Something you can really put your mind to?”

“No one has given me any work, Bernadetta. That is part of the problem.”

“Okay, well, maybe not, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to do, right?” She had sat for a moment with her mouth pinched to one side before she had excitedly clapped her hands together. “Ooh, what if you make a list of everything you think you’ll need to get back on track? Everyone loves a good list, right?”

Honestly, Ferdinand had found it difficult to argue with her. That was how he had ended up at his desk once again, pen and paper in hand. Bernadetta had sat herself on the edge of the desk, and she watched with interest as he thought through what was absolutely necessary for him to begin working at his job again. The list consisted of physical items as well as any pertinent information he felt he currently lacked.

So far, the document read:

_A list of things that I require posthaste to resume my work as Prime Minister, as they have occurred to me:_

\- _A list of my aides, including names and positions_

\- _A complete schedule of all upcoming government meetings_

\- _The names of every Imperial Minister, preferably accompanied by useful notations. Strengths? Weaknesses?_

\- _Any changes in government hierarchy that I should be aware of_

\- _Status of Aegir lands_

\- _Access to my official correspondence_

\- _Access to maps of trade routes_

\- _Access to allocations of funds and budgets._ _War debt?_ had been added to the margin.

\- _Access to projected agricultural yields_

\- _Update on all foreign relations_

\- _The ability to speak during meetings_

\- _More plants in my bedroom and office (suggestion courtesy of Bernadetta von Varley)_

He sat back after a time, feeling relatively pleased with this. Bernadetta had been right after all, though whether it was concerning the concept of list-making or his desire to do something that felt even slightly productive, he could not tell. He was still more than a little upset with one Hubert von Vestra, but at least this had taken his mind off of things for a time.

“I will need to go through everything in my office, I think, to see if I can start to make sense of things,” he said.

“Oh, that might be... kinda... difficult.”

“... Why?”

“Well I may have, sorta, forgotten that Edelgard told you not to work, so I stopped by to say hi and bring you a snack a couple of days ago and it was, uh, locked.”

“Locked?”

Bernadetta nodded. Ferdinand picked his pen back up and added one more thing to the bottom of the list.

\- _The key to my office_

“Also, your office is kind of messy.”

“Messy? I am not messy! I have never been messy!” 

Bernadetta had simply looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

It was not long after that that Bernadetta had noted just how late it had gotten. She had said her goodbyes, wished him a long and restful evening, and had wrapped her arms around him in a hasty, rib-crushing hug before departing. 

Gazing at the sunflower pinned to his breast, Ferdinand was worried he hadn’t shown enough appreciation to her. 

\------

Ferdinand had tried, briefly, to fall asleep after that, but had found little success. 

So he had gotten up, and once again pulled his boots on. It still hurt somewhat to walk—not enough, however, to deter him. 

The guard was still waiting for him as he stepped outside, and he suppressed the budding anger that flooded his stomach once again.

“Where are you going?” Always the same question, spoken without any care for Ferdinand himself. Ferdinand was far too tired to consider being overly courteous, but he forced a strict politeness into his tone regardless.

“I would like to speak with Marquis Vestra,” Ferdinand answered, keeping his voice level. “I had hoped he might have something to help me sleep.”

If the guard thought this odd, he was not skilled in expressing it. “He should still be in his office at this hour. I can escort you—” 

“I remember where it is, thank you,” he replied coolly.

He had worried for a moment that the man would follow him regardless, an inescapable nuisance. He did not, however, and so Ferdinand continued toward his destination—though he made a brief stop at the otherwise-abandoned kitchens to pocket an apple.

Ferdinand found, just as the guard had said, that candlelight seeped outwards from beneath the crack in the door to Hubert’s office. It was little wonder the man looked so tired, so ghastly, when this was enough of a routine for a guard to be able to inform him of it.

And for a moment, Ferdinand contemplated holding true to his word.

He briefly considered a scenario in which he entered the room and spoke with Hubert, their voices low and measured, perhaps even kind. There would be no shouting to speak of—Ferdinand would humbly apologize for his outburst, and Hubert would cautiously apologize for his behavior, and some semblance of normalcy would be allowed to resume once more. 

Ferdinand frowned as he approached the door, lightening his steps. Hubert’s words suddenly resounded in his head, incessant in their tone, a reflection of a moment where he had been taken off guard, and one where he had not intended to be heard. 

_I love you. I don’t trust you._

Hubert had done little to deny the latter, even if he had not said it explicitly.

In fact, Ferdinand found that his tired mind could replay one of the phrases with perfect accuracy in Hubert’s voice. The other, he determined, it could not reproduce.

And what did it matter if he had lied about his destination, anyway? Hubert von Vestra hardly had a right to know where he was at any given moment. It was not as if he were sneaking out to do anything untoward.

Ferdinand continued down the hallway.

He stopped once he’d reached the stables.

The clouds had finally begun to part after their days’ long reign over Enbarr, and streaks of moonlight shone through the gaps to provide just enough light to see by. The air outside was cool, and the ground was still damp, but Ferdinand did not let it deter him. Instead, he stopped just outside of entering the stables themselves, suddenly worried that there was perhaps not a single horse inside that he would recognize. 

For the most part, he was right. He felt a pang of guilt at how many recognized him that he did not recognize in turn, but he would be certain to learn their names, later, when he was not here with such a specific purpose in mind. He was really only searching for one horse in particular.

“Pumpkin,” he said, and he could already feel his eyes welling. Her ears perked up as she heard him, and she looked nothing short of excited when she laid eyes on him. 

On paper, there was nothing special about her. She was not purebred in any regard—she was not the fastest horse, nor the strongest, not cut out to be a warhorse or a mage horse or likely to even plow a field. He had spotted her when he was perhaps eleven—he had been visiting a farm near the Aegir Estate at the time, the purpose meant to be educational in nature, but he was fairly certain he had not learned a thing. He had instead been enamored with a spirited golden-brown foal, her mane light and blonde and perfectly lovely, that he was told was nothing particularly special. He had been set on her immediately, but it had required a great deal of begging to convince his father to even _consider_ letting him take her with him. To this day, it was one of the handful of things Ferdinand found himself grateful to his father for.

“It is so good to see you,” he said. “I know it’s been a while.” 

If she was upset by his absence, or if she did not recognize this strange, lesser Ferdinand before her, she did not show it, and he was grateful. 

It was something he had done a lot, growing up—he had discovered early on that it was far easier to speak honestly to horses than to people, and so he had begun to use it as a strategy of talking through his problems. If Pumpkin had ever minded, she had kept it to herself.

“Something terrible has happened,” he told her, reaching out to scratch behind her ears. “I was injured, and now there is so much I cannot remember. You probably remember more than I do, now.”

“But I have done something rather foolish now, I am afraid. I snapped at someone who was almost certainly trying to help me, and while I believe I was in the right, I… regret the way that I said it, and I am unsure if I will be able to apologize. Or if I even _should_ apologize.” 

It was a predicament.

“I am not mad at him. Not truly,” he muttered after a moment, the words for Pumpkin’s ears only. She had a way of tilting her head and twitching her ears that told Ferdinand she was listening, if only so he could have someone to talk to. “Nor Edelgard for her part, nor Linhardt for his coldness. Dorothea and Bernadetta have certainly only tried to help, and they have succeeded, but—” He needed to phrase this right.

“I just—I do not wish to be coddled. They never treated me with half as much carefulness at Garreg Mach, and it is frustrating, to be looked upon as though you are fragile and could break at any moment.”

He chewed on his lip as he worked through the thought. “Or maybe I am already broken—but they cannot find a piece that fits in their attempts to put me back together.”

Hardly the most poetic thing he had ever said.

“That’s a ridiculous thought, and perhaps an even worse metaphor—please keep it between us, Pumpkin. I have always trusted your discretion.” He sighed, dissatisfied with himself more than anything, and extended his hand, letting Pumpkin help herself to the apple he had stolen from the kitchens as an offering. “I should probably apologize. Some of what I said was... unnecessarily cruel, and I do not think I have ever seen him look so hurt. … That I remember, anyway. I have to keep saying that, otherwise I am sure that someone will correct me, and I will somehow look foolish for misstating something I had no way of knowing.”

“But I did not even know I was capable of affecting him in such a way, really—” 

He trailed off for a moment as Pumpkin continued to munch happily.

“It is just... he has never paid so much attention to me before, but it is still not—well, it is nothing compared to those letters. Such beautiful observations and quiet declarations of love, to the point of wistfulness, yet what am I spared now? One single, cold note in the mornings, likely informing me of something I am not allowed to do or a plan he must cancel. I might see him, if I am lucky, but he rarely seems willing to spare a conversation. I cannot help but wonder what it was that I did so wrong—he seemed much more willing, those first two days. I overheard one minuscule sliver of a conversation somehow not meant for the ears of the Prime Minister, and now the Imperial Spymaster has tossed me aside as if he were never interested in me at all.”

He frowned and shifted to sit on the ground, allowing his injured foot to rest as he moved to lean his back against the wood of the stall; he did not expect Pumpkin to sink to the ground as well, giving her own legs respite as she set her head across his lap. It could have been a show of solidarity, or perhaps she was simply tired. Regardless, Ferdinand dutifully ran his fingers through her mane in a way she had always liked before.

“But the letters, Pumpkin. I wonder if I ever told you about them. It is just—no one has ever said such things to me before. I doubt anyone had ever even thought to. And some of it was superficial, yes, but so much of it wasn’t. It was—it was a love not based simply on appearances, but for me. All of me.”

Or all of someone that was almost him.

“It is a strange thing, I think, to be jealous of yourself,” he said again after a while. “It is not a particularly noble desire, is it? But Goddess, I just want what he had. By all accounts, he was respected, and loved. Not coddled. Not broken.”

His voice wavered, and his thoughts could not help but drift to Hubert again and again and again.

“I should like to be kissed, I think. Or even simply held, though I fear there is little chance of that happening now, is there? I have once again ruined something I had ultimately hoped to improve. Is that not perfectly typical.”

It was not a question so much as a statement of fact: Ferdinand von Aegir was spectacularly good at ruining relationships, forever incapable of keeping his thoughts to himself, whether it be Marianne, Mercedes, Bernadetta, or Caspar. He had only ever intended to help, but the damage he did always seemed to be far greater in the end. Even Edelgard he had challenged with what he had thought were only the best of intentions.

_But you did not intend to help here, did you?_

He was ashamed of the truth.

_No._

He had gone to Hubert’s office intending to hurt, and he would wager the entire Aegir Estate that he had succeeded. They had argued before—countless times, in fact—but this was something different. Ferdinand wondered what the chances were that, despite how justified he had felt in his anger, he had taken the only person who well-and-truly loved him and spat in their face.

Ferdinand only knew he was crying now because the night air was cold against the streaks on his face.

“And I have the worst dreams, Pumpkin. I haven’t any idea what they mean, but they feel horribly real. I have not slept well in days; I constantly fear when the next one will come, and what they will do to me this time.” He feared what faces they would show to him next, either as a tormentor or a fellow prisoner. He feared what he might finally tell them.

“That is ridiculous too, isn’t it? To be afraid of a simple dream? It is highly irrational to worry that I will fall asleep and awaken in a cell with needles at my throat, and yet I do. This other Ferdinand would not be half as afraid as I am, I think. He would be far braver.”

Pumpkin lifted her head from his lap and resettled on the stable floor, then, her eyes closing as she did so. It did not seem like a bad idea, truthfully, and so he followed suit, curling up to rest his head against her side as he continued to voice his worries into the night air.

\------

When his eyes next fluttered open again, he was somewhere different, and he was surprised to learn he had ever fallen asleep. His body was absolutely freezing, every muscle he had shivering, and he was... moving?

Falling?

No, that was wrong—carried. He was being carried.

There was an arm under his legs, and one under his back, and his head was resting against clothing. He instinctively clutched at the fabric.

Ferdinand wondered for a moment if he should have been concerned that he was being carted off to an unknown location, but he simply could not find the energy for it. Instead, he lightly pressed a hand to the chest belonging to someone he hoped to be more of a rescuer than an abductor. His eyes flickered upwards in a dull recognition, though the vestiges of sleep showed little sign that they would be easily shaken off this time.

“H-Hubert,” he muttered, trying to force sound into the word. It was weak, but it was the best he could manage.

“Ferdinand. You fell asleep—in the stables, I might add.” He was not angry, at least; that was all that mattered.

“I… can walk,” Ferdinand offered, his words still refusing to sound quite right.

“Bernadetta informed me that you hurt your foot.”

“‘s not that bad,” he slurred.

“I would prefer not to take any chances.”

There was a moment of quiet as Ferdinand tried to remember what it was that he needed to say. He had nearly fallen back asleep before it came to him and he remembered just how crucial it was that he say it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbled.

“You are lucky I found you, you know. It was as if you were trying to freeze to death.”

“No, not that,” Ferdinand corrected. The sound was partially obscured by the fact he was simply allowing himself to talk into Hubert’s chest. “’m sorry I yelled.”

“Don’t be. You were right to.”

“It was unfair.”

“It was not.”

“I hurt you.” His words blended together, heavy with exhaustion, but he could hardly be bothered to annunciate right now. What mattered was that he had said it.

“You did not.”

“I did. I could tell.”

“Oh? And how did the great Detective von Aegir deduce that?” It was an attempt at some form of jest, which Ferdinand took as another decent indication that Hubert was not still upset with him. It was also, however, intended to misdirect, and Ferdinand would not fall for it.

“Your face. ‘nd because I read your letters.” The two had to be related, surely. Or perhaps he was combining two separate arguments to make the same point.

It didn’t matter. Hubert would understand.

“My letters?”

“The ones you—the ones you wrote. To the other Ferdinand.” He blinked in an effort to stay awake.

Ferdinand had hardly registered that Hubert was actually taking him somewhere until he was once more back in his room, the door shutting behind them following a nudge from Hubert’s boot. Hubert had then, with as much gentleness as he could manage while his limbs shook slightly from the weight, set Ferdinand down on the edge of the bed and began working off his boots.

“Ah. Those letters. I didn’t know you’d kept them.”

Ferdinand nodded and made an affirmative noise, barely able to keep his eyes open any longer. He doubted the validity of Hubert’s statement somewhat, but it didn’t matter. “Mm.”

“And what did the letters tell you?”

“That you loved him.”

“Well,” Hubert said, reaching to take Ferdinand’s hands, removing his gloves and carefully unpinning the embroidered sunflower from his shirt. “It is the truth.”

“I just thought that... maybe, if it were not too much trouble,” Ferdinand murmured, and though the sentence was interrupted by a yawn, he persevered. “That—that maybe you could love me, too. And write me letters. Or just... or just one letter. That would be all right.”

“I do love you,” was the response. Ferdinand was not aware enough to interpret the emotion behind it. A hand lightly tugged at the hair tie that was now barely holding his braid together until the strands came loose entirely.

“Here,” Hubert spoke, offered as a warning before he picked Ferdinand up again, shifting him to the spot where he had pulled the bed covers back and letting Ferdinand’s head rest on the pillow. He wanted to bury himself in the blankets, to force the chill out of his body, but he did not feel like he had achieved what he wanted yet, and there was a fear that lingered in the back of his mind.

“I simply wish for you to know,” Hubert began again, pulling the sheets up over Ferdinand’s body. His voice was so light it was nearly inaudible. “That there is no ‘other’ Ferdinand. There is only you, and there has only ever been you. You are one and the same, if not by what you know, then by how you act. It is unmistakable. Those letters are still yours.”

This felt like an intensely profound statement to make, but Ferdinand was uncertain of how to respond.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” he repeated, and he meant it.

“All is forgiven, Ferdinand.”

“No, I—” 

“You’re exhausted, Ferdinand. It’s unlikely you will even remember this tomorrow.”

“But it’s important,” he argued.

Hubert crouched down at the bedside, those beautiful green eyes peering right into him.

“It is more important that I tell you how sorry I am for how I’ve treated you. And I will tell you again, tomorrow, in the event that you do not remember.”

“I will remember,” Ferdinand asserted. “And I forgive you, too.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I do.”

Hubert provided him with a gift, a small ghost of a smile that Ferdinand almost thought he’d imagined before the man moved to stand up again—presumably to leave. 

Ferdinand did not want him to go. He reached out and grabbed the sleeve of Hubert’s shirt.

“... Please stay.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ferdinand. As I said, you’re exhausted.”

“So are you.”

“You’re not thinking straight.”

 _“Please,”_ Ferdinand asked again. “I don’t... I don't wish to be alone if the nightmares return. I don't have anyone else to ask. Please, Hubert.”

Ferdinand did not entirely remember what had happened after the request—nor what, exactly, it was that had ultimately convinced Hubert to take off his own boots and lay down next to him. It hardly mattered, though, because Hubert was warm, and he had allowed Ferdinand to rest his head on his chest as he ran a soothing hand through the hair that Ferdinand was now very glad he had not dared to cut. He listened to the gentle thuds of Hubert’s heartbeat—an act that proved the both of them to be unequivocally, beautifully alive—and Ferdinand was not sure he would ever again feel so relieved for the rest of his life.

And Ferdinand slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, this chapter ended up ridiculously long—the longest thing I've ever written, actually! It probably should have been split up into two parts, but I couldn't bear not to end on a happier note this time. Next chapter is shaping up to possibly be from Hubert's point of view! 
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to Lily and Alexz for reading all of my many, many drafts and providing me with an abudance fantastic ideas, as well as to everyone who has been so incredibly supportive of me! I really can't properly describe how much every comment and kudos means to me. 
> 
> Find me on twitter [@celestial_tart!](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart)
> 
> Also, I commissioned an absolutely stunning piece from the incredible [@stinkl1ng](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng) for Chapter 4, that can be found [here!](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng/status/1247906158997897216) Check it out!
> 
> EDIT: The lovely [@PhantomR_art](https://twitter.com/PhantomR_art) drew a piece of BEAUTIFUL, JAW-DROPPING fanart for this chapter and it made me cry, so you should all look at it and admire it as much as I do right [here!!](https://twitter.com/PhantomR_art/status/1265554468998991873)
> 
> EDIT 2: [@miaoulovania](https://www.instagram.com/miaoulovania/) on Instagram did an AMAZING piece of fanart, as well, so please go look at it [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CB4JdmsDXtz/?igshid=vmz4lt5w05lh) because it's absolutely wonderful!!!


	7. The Emperor's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ferdinand von Aegir falls from his horse, somewhere in former Leicester Alliance territory. Hubert von Vestra struggles with the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: This chapter is from Hubert's PoV, and thus can be morbid at times, featuring descriptions of wounds, thoughts of possible character death, and the contemplation of an autopsy.

“Stay,” Hubert breathed, the word muffled by a mane of orange and sun-kissed skin.

“Mm?”

“Don’t go to Leicester. Just stay here, with me.”

“You know I cannot do that, Hubert,” came the response, and the body beneath him shifted. A hand, brushing through short strands of black hair. “This agreement has been months in the making; it is far too important, and I—”

A kiss pressed into a jawline.

“I know. I don’t care.”

Another kiss, this time higher up, closer to claiming the desired prize.

“ _I_ care. And as the Minister of the Imperial Household, so should you!”

Not particularly surprising. Hubert exhaled through his nose. Another strategy, then.

“You don’t have to go _now_.” It was still dreadfully early, the sun barely visible over the horizon. Complete consciousness still seemed a distant reality, and keeping the body below him from leaving was currently a far more important task than some paltry _trade agreement_. “Your escort will hardly leave without you.”

“That is not the point!” came the response again, more exasperated now. “It is a long ride, and I must be punctual to afford myself enough time to—”

Lips were claimed in another kiss. And another. And another. Hubert had learned some time ago that this was a surprisingly effective method for persuading the beautiful and esteemed Prime Minister von Aegir to shut that beautiful and esteemed mouth of his.

“You are being unfair,” Ferdinand mumbled quietly, when Hubert finally had to take an unfortunate moment to breathe.

“Perhaps.”

Hubert pulled back, then, arms to the side of Ferdinand’s shoulders, propping himself up as he observed what may as well have been the image of perfection: Ferdinand von Aegir, with his wide, sad eyes, his freckled cheeks, his reddened lips, so willing to hold a smile, framed by as-yet unkempt curls the color of autumn leaves.

Not even the greatest painter in all of Fódlan could do this justice.

 _And_ , Hubert thought, _this is only for me to see._

“It almost seems as though you will miss me,” Ferdinand said after a moment, gazing up at him, his voice low.

Still stifled by the dregs of sleep as he was (and perhaps only slightly influenced by the scene before him), Hubert chose the moment to be nothing short of honest.

“Of course I will miss you,” he said, sinking back down from his overlook into the bed, resting his head somewhere between Ferdinand’s neck and shoulder.

“I will not be gone long, you know—perhaps a month, at most.”

“That is _far_ too long,” Hubert mumbled into impossibly warm skin. He felt more than heard Ferdinand’s quiet laugh in response.

“You will be far too busy to notice, I should think,” was the response, and Ferdinand was not wrong—though he did not wish to admit it, this trip _was_ an important matter of state, certainly deserving of the Prime Minister’s personal attention. But that did not mean the rest of his work would wait.

“And Ishould think that will make you miss my presence even more,” Ferdinand continued, finally attempting to extract himself from the bed. Begrudgingly, Hubert let him go, watching for a moment as he flitted about the room, dressed in his riding gear, added a handful of last-minute items to his luggage. Hubert had never been one for mornings, however, and he wavered on the edge of consciousness until he felt Ferdinand briefly rest a hand on his arm.

Ferdinand was in the process of braiding his hair, even as he stood over the bed. Hubert watched him, bleary-eyed, as he tied it off with a ribbon—silken and a light blue in color, contrasting with the ginger of his hair beautifully. It was familiar—Hubert had bought it for him on a whim, a foggy part of his mind reminded him, the product of a rare moment of impulsivity while walking through the Enbarr markets.

“Something to remember you by,” Ferdinand remarked, hand returning to Hubert’s shoulder as he leaned down. “Sleep in for me, darling,” he whispered as he did, leaving a singular, soft kiss in his wake. Hubert vaguely noted the feeling of the sheets being drawn further over his shoulder before the presence pulled away. “I will be back before you know it—please, do not work yourself too hard in my absence.”

And finally: “I love you.”

Hubert could not remember if he’d said it back.

\------

Ferdinand had not lied, exactly, that final day before he’d departed, but it felt like a betrayal all the same in the quiet chaos that followed the delivery of a letter from Lorenz Gloucester via an express messenger bird, indicating that the Prime Minister was now running “rather late” with no word to justify his tardiness.

The Emperor had only barely kept Hubert from saddling his own horse and riding out within the hour. She warned of a trap, or an overreaction, and, in a worst-case scenario, the Empire could not bear to lose two of her ministers in so short a period. Hubert could not deny the validity of her words, even as his hands clenched at his sides.

And so Hubert had gritted his teeth and stayed. He arranged a search party of Adrestia’s best scouts, his most decorated agents, and sent them off along the route that Hubert himself had helped Ferdinand pick out over a week in advance of the trip itself.

It was utterly maddening, being forced to sit in his office and do what amounted to _nothing_.

\------

Hubert did not sleep. There was nothing to be done, and yet he spent hours penning letters and pouring over maps in a desperate attempt to figure out just where Ferdinand could have gone.

The answer could have been something completely reasonable, of course, as Lady Edelgard had suggested. Perhaps Ferdinand had decided at the last moment to take a detour through Aegir rather than head straight to Myrddin, or one of the horses had fallen ill and he had staunchly refused to continue on without it.

And yet.

Ferdinand was rarely one to prioritize personal matters over his work, and he had fought adamantly to arrange this trade agreement for months now. To be late to the finalization of that work was unbecoming, to say nothing of it being out of character. It was even more out of character for him to have sent no word at all regarding any potential setbacks—particularly when he had set out from Enbarr with a full escort.

Highly uncharacteristic, then, and more than a little concerning, given that they were at war.

Not open war, no—the Church of Seiros was a year toppled and their false Archbishop long dead. This was a war fought in the shadows; there were no official declarations, no armies raised, no designated battlefields, and yet it was bloody all the same.

The Agarthans, as he had learned they were called, had shown their hand at Arianrhod, an unfortunate casualty of overextension and a critical lack of imagination. The blame had rested solely on Hubert’s shoulders. He hadn’t known about the javelins of light, then, and the soldiers of the Imperial Army had paid the price.

As he sat at his desk, the wax of his candle running dangerously low as he once again examined the route Ferdinand was meant to have traveled, desperate for answers, he could not help but worry that Ferdinand had now paid a similar price. After all, it had not been long since “Lord Arundel” had been sent away from Enbarr and back to his own land to “govern” in the midst of the area’s growing unrest. It had suffered greatly during the war, and required, as Lady Edelgard had phrased it, “direct supervision” to oversee its rebuilding. It was unfair to those who had the misfortune to live there, yes, but with Arundel’s departure from Enbarr, he had been rendered politically impotent in the day-to-day business of Fódlan—it was the lesser of two evils.

The reasoning had been sound, but perhaps too overt. Arianrhod had been a response to the slaying of Cornelia. The mysterious disappearance of their decorated general and Prime Minister may have simply been the newest punishment for the Emperor’s defiance.

After all, it was not as if Arundel had not expressed a sickening interest in Ferdinand before; House Aegir had always been protective of its crest-bearers, and thus, the Cichol crest was not particularly common—nor insignificant, given the power it provided. The other crest-bearing Black Eagles had been subject to such scrutiny, as well, but never to the same extent as the scion of Adrestia’s—formerly _—_ foremost noble house. Clearly whatever deal the former Duke Aegir had struck to protect his only son and heir while Lady Edelgard and her siblings were thrown to the wolves no longer applied.

Of course, Arundel also hadn’t been pleased to have been conveniently passed over for the role of Prime Minister nearly one year ago, either.

So Hubert had sent Ferdinand into the maw of the beast unknowingly, then, clearly underestimating the extent of the power they still held within the former Leicester territory. Instead of rectifying this mistake, going to Leicester to recover Ferdinand himself, as he should have, he was here, sitting at his desk, staring at a map that could not give him the answers he needed. With each passing hour of helplessness, he considered disobeying Her Majesty’s order that he remain in the Palace. He could cross the distance in only a few warps, if he concentrated, and assist in the search.

If it were Lady Edelgard they had dared to take again, would he be sitting here, content to do what amounted to nothing?

The thought was a sour one, made worse because he already knew the answer.

His purported solution was not a prudent one, either. Warp was not a spell typically meant for long distance use due to the strength it sapped from the body. Its limits could be stretched by the right spellcaster with enough risk—and what did this particular risk matter, if it produced results?

_They will discover you_ , the part of his mind still thinking logically supplied, and this was likely true. The Agarthans could sense the use of magic. To make such a blatant display of power was to risk detection—and if they _had_ found Ferdinand, if they had made him a hostage, a test subject, a crest-bearing blood supply, then such an action would only put him in more danger.

He could do nothing, then. 

Hubert placed his elbows on his desk—undried ink from his useless scribblings staining the white linen of his sleeves—put his head in his hands, and screamed.

When he pulled his hands away, they came back wet.

\------

They found him three days later.

Hubert should have been relieved, holding the letter—hastily penned in a code of his own design—in his hand. Ferdinand had not, allegedly, been whisked away to some laboratory, as he had feared. In fact, he had been found in former Leicester territory, not far from the path he was meant to have been on in the first place. It looked as though it had been the work of little more than bandits—a simple stroke of misfortune, if not for the fact that every other member of Ferdinand’s escort was dead and Ferdinand himself, the sole survivor.

Hubert read the words once over, twice over, slower each time, not trusting his brain to parse the code correctly. He reached for his coffee cup, finding it regrettably empty. This was not his first cup, today—far from it. He had stopped counting sometime after the third.

Ferdinand, along with the other regrettably deceased members of his entourage and any luggage they had brought, had been thoroughly robbed of every finery, according to the report. Any money on his person was predictably gone. Hubert considered the other possible casualties of this robbery: the sole Aegir signet ring he always insisted was necessary for any diplomatic negotiation was almost certainly gone, along with an engraved pocket watch Ferdinand tended to take everywhere. According to the report, his carefully chosen rapier—the typical, more appropriate substitute for his lance, these days, now that they were meant to be in times of peace—had not been spared, nor had his custom-tailored riding vest, gloves, or even (or perhaps especially) boots.

The days had begun to grow warmer in Leicester, thankfully, but the nights could still prove chilly this early into the new year—it was a wonder Ferdinand had not frozen to death, if he had truly been left so wounded and exposed in the wake of such an attack. Fortuitous, indeed, and certainly a convincing scene for anyone attempting to discern what had occurred. For what common bandit would not jump at the chance to claim for himself something of such good quality and make, be it jewelry, weapons, clothing—even the ribbon tied around his hair?

A miracle, then, that Ferdinand had survived at all, the only one from his band, dangerously wounded and alone in the wilds, exposed to the elements and any phenomenon nature might see fit to create. That he had not bled out in the mud, succumbed to dehydration, or suffered hypothermia in the night was truly nothing short of miraculous.

A pity, then, that Hubert could never believe in miracles granted by a goddess he had helped topple.

For surely even if they did not recognize him as the Prime Minister himself, bandits would jump on an opportunity to ransom someone that was clearly of some importance. Why go to that much effort only to claim whatever paltry trinkets had been on his person?

The bandits had intended for him to die, perhaps, and had miscalculated exactly what it would take to kill Ferdinand von Aegir. That, or things were not entirely as they seemed. He had only to wait a little longer, and he could judge for himself.

Just a little longer.

\------

Hubert saw him when the carriage arrived back in Enbarr right before dawn. He was standing by Lady Edelgard’s side, though they did not speak to one another, neither of them finding anything that could be said. It was only at this time that his agent informed him that, despite their healer’s best efforts, no one had been able to rouse Ferdinand. He was alive, the man assured him. But barely.

Hubert schooled any emotion that threatened to slip onto his face as Lady Edelgard ordered Ferdinand be taken to his rooms for further inspection.

Standing in the Prime Minister’s quarters, forced into a corner as an observer while Ferdinand’s unconscious body was crowded by healers who could do nothing for him, Hubert did not know what to think.

Of the many talents possessed by Hubert von Vestra, “physician” was not—and likely never would be—one. His skill in faith was shaky at best, to no one’s surprise—it was an ability useful only as battlefield medicine during the war, where even _bad_ healing had been better than no healing at all.

It had saved Ferdinand’s life, once, when they were deep in Faerghan territory. Hubert had watched the cavalier dive into an enemy’s thoron to protect another, the picture of foolhardy heroism. It would hardly have been a fair exchange, in the end—Ferdinand von Aegir’s life was worth far more than that of the common footsoldier, in Hubert’s opinion—and yet, it was a sacrifice the man had seemed all-too-willing to make at the time.

Hubert still recalled the sight of Ferdinand staring up at him, back flat on the ground only moments after his grip had gone slack on his reins and he’d slipped from his warhorse. Mud had seeped into his hair and blood had begun to spill from the crack where his armor had been pierced, the residual electricity of the spell dancing across his breastplate.

As Hubert had dropped down beside him, resting his hands on the singed armor in what he’d later recognize was panic as his mind tried to recall the motions of a proper Heal spell, he had looked to Ferdinand, who, in what could very well have been his final moments, had simply smiled at him. Even as his blood stained Hubert’s gloves and spilled from the corner of his lips. Even as his eyes struggled to focus and his lungs sputtered for air—he had smiled.

And it was beautiful.

Ferdinand had said something placating at the time—as if somehow it were Hubert dying, rather than himself—but Hubert had barely heard the words, much less remembered them. The smile had been far more important.

It was a useless memory to consider now. Ferdinand was not looking up at him from where his head currently rested on a pillow, nor was it clear if he ever would again. Far more competent healers than he were trying and, so far, had come up with nothing.

Ultimately, it was easy to slip into something more analytical.

On the surface, Ferdinand’s injuries were obvious. The medic had done what she could at the scene, but faith magic was a tricky thing, especially in the face of what were likely days’ old wounds.

It certainly did not help that the wounds were the result of dark magic.

Dark magic was corrosive by nature—it sapped, siphoned, embedded itself in victim and caster alike. It consumed anything it came into contact with and was notoriously difficult to counter or heal. It was also notoriously difficult to learn; Hubert’s body bore many scars as a result.

Ferdinand’s likely would, too.

Whatever spell the cavalier had been hit with, it was not insignificant. It had burned into swathes of skin along his chest and torso, leaving behind a sickly purple color in its wake. It was not unlike the color that tinged Hubert’s hands. Certainly not unlike the magic he used to kill, the victims so numerous he had never bothered to count.

He had never regretted this choice before. He still didn’t. But looking at Ferdinand’s form now, he felt… odd.

When the room had finally cleared, Hubert approached the bed carefully, looking to observe. The scrutiny with which he studied Ferdinand—noting his bruised and recently-bandaged torso, the cut on his forehead, the hair loose around his shoulders—reminded him of an autopsy; with a knife and a proper corpse, the scene would have been complete. It was lucky, then, that Ferdinand’s body still drew breath—Hubert distantly worried he would have lacked the necessary resolve to bring down the knife. This, by comparison, was far easier.

Considering the damage he had sustained, the caster had been skilled. Even if Ferdinand had been wearing armor, a spell of this magnitude would have melted through it with ease.

Hubert frowned. The wounds themselves were only barely beginning to heal—even now, it looked as though they had not yet begun to scab. Beyond the spell damage, his ribs were bruised, either the result the fall from his horse or, perhaps, several well-placed kicks. A wonder, still, that Ferdinand had survived, considering how long he had been missing.

Hubert did not recall having ever met a common bandit capable of casting dark magic, or even a spell of this caliber. He had never met a bandit capable of surprising Ferdinand von Aegir and his entire battalion, either.

On a whim, he collected Ferdinand’s hair into his hands. He tied it with a ribbon.

\------

“Hubert,” Linhardt called. “Look at this.”

Her Majesty had summoned Linhardt back to the capital as soon as she had received the update on Ferdinand’s status, and he arrived back—begrudgingly—in Enbarr one day after Ferdinand’s unconscious body. As much as Hubert disliked the man’s atrocious work ethic, he could hardly deny his talent with regards to healing—as well as the importance of his research. In the event the Agarthans _did_ have a hand in this, Linhardt’s aid could prove invaluable.

Linhardt had been talking to himself for the past several minutes as he examined the Prime Minister, mumbling an assortment of statements concerning how much he didn’t want to be here, how he would have done a much better job of healing if he had been on the scene—even while he complained about the appearance of the wounds—and how it was a true shame about Ferdinand, but rather nice for him to be quiet for once. Nothing Hubert had not expected to hear.

Something was different, now. Linhardt had beckoned to Hubert from where he was crouched next to Ferdinand, fingers carefully tilting his chin away as his face hovered far too close to the cavalier’s neck.

“Here,” he said as Hubert approached, running his fingers over the area that had caught his attention.

They were barely noticeable, the marks, all centered around the same spot. They would have been easy to miss, under a less-watchful eye.

“There are more—” he yawned, even as he tiled Ferdinand’s head further, “—here. The area beneath the skin feels bruised, but they’re rather hard to see, aren’t they?”

“What’s your theory?” Hubert asked. He asked, despite the fact he had already made up his mind.

“You’re not going to like it.”

“There is nothing about this that I like.”

“Well, they could be a handful of things, but by my approximation, they were most likely caused by—”

“Needles,” Hubert answered, tired of Linhardt’s drawling.

The healer seemed to gag, at that. Hubert would prefer he keep it to himself. “That’s the likeliest answer.”

Hubert reached down, running the tips of his gloved fingers over the marks.

“You don’t know what it means, do you?”

The question was this: did the marks name this Ferdinand as a face-changed? Or did they prove the opposite?

Hubert did not know the answer. Linhardt ultimately left with a small vial of blood—all that they deemed could be spared, given the state of the Prime Minister—that Hubert had extracted himself. Linhardt would examine it, and see if they could determine anything of use.

\------

“How is he, Hubert?” Edelgard asked, hands resting on her office desk as she stood over it. She had not looked at him yet.

“Still comatose, Your Majesty. But by Linhardt’s approximation, chances are he will survive.”

“Good,” she said, nodding her head. Her hair laid plainly along her back. Hubert typically styled it for her; he had not been by to do it. “That’s… good.”

“There was something else, Your Majesty. Needle marks, along his neck.”

She cast a peculiar look over her shoulder. “Marks that the other healers missed?”

“They’re barely perceptible. Much of the damage is under the skin, though there’s no visible bruising.”

“… What does that mean, Hubert?”

“We’re not sure. Linhardt is conducting tests.”

She fixed her gaze back on the desk again, her back still to him. “You think he’s one of them.”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“You think they had him,” she rephrased.

“Yes.”

Neither of them spoke. Eventually, Edelgard turned around to face him, her eyes glassy. She took a step towards him before she seemed to hesitate on what to do next.

“He will wake up,” she declared.

“Perhaps.”

“No,” she shook her head. “He will wake up. He’ll be fine. We need him to.”

“As you say, Your Majesty.”

“Hubert.” She reached out a hand, though she looked unsure of what she should do with it. She settled on resting it against his arm. “Please take care of yourself. He’ll be fine.”

Lady Edelgard was the only person Hubert had personally admitted his relationship with Ferdinand to. He had informed her, believing it his duty as her Minister. He had thought to turn in a resignation, perhaps, if Her Majesty worried over his ability to perform his duties.

Ferdinand, despite his assurances otherwise, had not expressed the same discretion. Hubert was fairly certain he had told Dorothea and Bernadetta directly, unable to keep such tales of _romanticism_ to himself. Hubert had thought this might concern Lady Edelgard, given how much it stood to reflect on her reputation.

She had expressed no such worry. 

Hubert dipped his head in acknowledgement. Edelgard lifted her hand before she straightened her posture once more.

“… Whatever resources you need to investigate this, you have them.”

“It will be done, Your Majesty.”

Hubert returned to his office to organize, and to plan.

\------

The situation was a disruption to Hubert’s routine that he had not planned for. He felt strangely out of place in the Prime Minister’s quarters, now, chipping away at paperwork by the bedside. He could not sleep in the bed, to be sure, and the room itself had begun to feel foreign since the day they had discovered the needle marks on the Prime Minister’s neck. If he had felt like sleeping, at any point, he could have returned to his own quarters, he supposed, situated closer to the Emperor’s chambers in the palace. It had been some time since he’d lived in them properly, however—though Ferdinand had once argued he had _never_ lived in them properly. The thought of laying down in the bed there, alone, was one he did not entertain long. It felt like a waste of time, besides.

The little bits of sleep he managed over the following days were thus either the result of falling asleep in his office or dozing off in the tea chair he had pulled up beside the Prime Minister’s bedside. Both made his body ache, but he could not find it in himself to care. He reasoned that someone needed to keep a close eye on the Prime Minister, in the event that he did wake up.

A potential face-changer could be given no chance to roam the palace unsupervised.

This was where he was now, looking over documents concerning the preliminary allocation of funds for the Empire’s newest educational reform. It was, beyond anything else, perhaps what Ferdinand was most passionate about.

Hubert found his eyes drifting from the documents, not for the first time that day. Today was the 30th of the Great Tree Moon—Ferdinand’s birthday, officially marking the war of the Crimson Flower as one-year won.

Some way to celebrate, this was. He could not dwell on it.

No one would ever describe a Vestra as someone gifted with a traditionally creative mind. Hubert’s imagination, however, was often unmatched. He found it frequently worked in tandem with what some had described as “paranoia.” Hubert preferred the term “cautiousness.”

Physically, it was impossible to tell any difference. Hubert had thought that maybe—maybe—he would have been able to tell. That they would misplace some of the finer details, somehow, and whatever foul magic they had used would not ultimately hold up to scrutiny. But there was _nothing_. Not a single freckle, scar, or mark out of place. His hair waved and curled in all of the right places. He had a small mole in the crook of his left arm, one on his right shoulder blade, one on the small of his back. He slept the same, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly with every small, even puff of breath and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

It was an exact replica. A perfect copy.

Or, perhaps he was not a copy at all. Perhaps he was the real thing, and he truly had been beset upon the road by simple bandits. Perhaps they had simply injured him, and he had simply survived, and it was simple misfortune that they did not discover him until days later. It was not completely improbable—merely unlikely. Incredibly unlikely.

After so many years, Hubert still had no idea how the Agarthans stole their forms, and it infuriated him. Did the target have to be dead, or could they copy the image and voice of a prisoner, as long as they had the real thing for comparison? The only thing Hubert knew for certain was that no one whom had been replaced had ever been seen again to raise any alarm.

As such, Hubert had no choice but to consider a reality in which Ferdinand von Aegir was dead.

Because even if the marks peppering his neck were not evidence of an imposter, they were irrefutable prof that _something_ had been done to him. For all Hubert’s wars and plotting and shadowy operations, for everything he had sacrificed in his life, he had been unable to keep Ferdinand safe, as he had with Lady Edelgard—except now, he was far older, far more knowledgeable, and could make no excuses. This time, it was a failing all his own.

It was a strange state of limbo, he supposed. He sat by the Prime Minister’s bedside whenever he could, chipping away at paperwork, arranging plans upon plans upon plans of things he knew Ferdinand had been working to bring to fruition. Of things he would no doubt wish to continue the moment that he woke up.

And Hubert _did_ want him to wake up.

But the longer it took, the more that each day passed without any change, the more selfishly, foolishly hopeful he became that this was real. That this was his Ferdinand—injured, but alive—and when he woke up, Hubert would ask him the phrase they had agreed upon, and he would provide the answer, and life could continue as it had.

If he did not, Hubert was not entirely sure what he would do.

At the Academy, he had left such things as _hope_ to Ferdinand—and had ruthlessly mocked him for it, as he recalled.

Hubert wanted to cling to hope now. Yet, as ever, it was not a luxury he could stand to afford. The Prime Minister was currently a passive threat; preparations would have to be made for when—if—that scenario changed.

\------

The following weeks progressed with no noticeable changes in the Prime Minister’s condition. Linhardt’s tests had thus far proved two things: the blood in the Prime Minister’s veins was indicative of a Cichol crest-bearer, and a substance was present within them that had not yet been identified. Hubert had split his time primarily between his office and the Prime Minister’s quarters; he conducted his regular duties while he awaited regular updates from his agents in Leicester. Thus far, they had discovered nothing—he was in the process of delineating the next area he wished for them to observe to a recently-returned agent.

“Vestra!”

The voice that interrupted them commanded far more authority than it should have, coming from one so small. Fleche von Bergliez was not yet grown, and yet she was already carving a path for herself, demanding respect wherever she went. Hubert had seen her potential during the war, and, following the death of her brother, he had offered her an opportunity. She had accepted, and now worked as an apprentice and political operative of sorts, assisting in some of the more… unsavory aspects of rooting out the remaining corruption within Fódlan. Now, she stood before him.

She also refused to—as she put it—ever attempt to get his attention with “paltry titles” when his name would suffice.

He turned his attention to her immediately. She’d sounded urgent.

“Report.”

“He’s awake, sir.”

\----

Fleche walked with him back to the Prime Minister’s quarters, as if Hubert had somehow forgotten what they were. She told him what little she’d observed; in turn, he asked her to do something for him.

It was a small project they had been working on since the end of the war, identifying the vestiges of the corrupt Adrestian upper class. Any former noble, wealthy merchant fallen from grace, disgruntled and recently unemployed servant was potentially dangerous, and all of them were attempting to claw their way up through this new system, desperate to once more have power in their grasp. Hubert had been meaning to meet with a particularly annoying man today, the arrangement scheduled weeks in advance—he considered himself a patron of the arts, having taken it upon himself to lobby with the Prime Minister recently for favor and legislation. Ferdinand had been too kind to dismiss the man entirely when he had first resurfaced after the war; Hubert—and by proxy, Fleche—had seen to looking into him.

As he stood at the threshold on Ferdinand’s chambers, he turned to bid Fleche goodbye.

“Thank you for informing me, Fleche. Will you be able to take care of what we discussed on your own?”

She nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ll be certain to record every detail.”

“You know that you have my utmost confidence.”

Fleche stepped away from him; Hubert reached for the door.

\------

Seeing Ferdinand _awake_ , eyes open and aware as they darted around the room, set Hubert’s heart beating faster. He looked confused, surprised to see Hubert in his doorway, but that was to be expected, wasn’t it?

Hubert assumed his seat by the bed, listed off as many inane updates on the state of the Empire as he could until Ferdinand worked up the awareness to interrupt, as he always did.

He’d expected “what happened” or “how long have I been asleep” as likely questions. Hubert did not expect the utterly baffled expression on Ferdinand’s face as he asked, “When did you cut your hair?”

The question shook him.

“Years ago,” he’d said, because it was the truth. If anything, his hair was actually in need of a trim, currently a bit longer than he preferred to keep it these days. Ferdinand would cut it for him, sometimes, being one of the only people in Fódlan he would allow near his face with a blade. The shock on the Prime Minister’s face was plain; it disrupted any rhythm Hubert had hoped to maintain. His heart beat faster.

He noted every question the Prime Minister asked, from the status of the former Duke Aegir to the wellbeing of the horse he had purportedly fallen from. He found he couldn’t get control of his thoughts, trapped in a whirlwind of implications all stemming from a Ferdinand von Aegir who claimed he did not remember the past _six years_.

Hubert could not even say he had regretted his words in hindsight. He’d regretted them even as he’d said them.

“I love you.”

This was hardly something he had been free with _before_ Ferdinand had left—so why did he feel the need to say it so easily now? To say it as if there were nothing else that could _be_ said? The amount of trouble he had caused for himself with three simple words would be nearly impossible to repair.

What was worse was he had _thought_ about what he would say for weeks, now. How, if this were a plot by the Agarthans, he had vowed to give them no possible leverage over him. This declaration of _love_ would have perhaps been justified, had this been Ferdinand as Hubert had known him, but the proclamation of _amnesia_ was one he could not have predicted, and he was ashamed to say—he had been caught off-guard.

He could still salvage this. If a potential snake in the Prime Minister’s skin thought him weak, lovestruck, and susceptible to lies, then he still held the upper hand.

Whatever upper hand existed here, anyway. Because if these claims of amnesia were legitimate, if Ferdinand now lacked any knowledge of the past six years of his life, of the war, of their victory—then there was nothing he could do for their relationship. Ferdinand would remember none of what they had done together, would recall only the cruelty and dismissiveness Hubert had directed toward him at the Academy, and he would take this foolish declaration of _love_ and rightfully throw it back in his face.

Hubert didn’t know what to do; he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

He had not been looking at the Prime Minister when he fell, his thoughts too scattered. It had been foolish of him not to expect some kind of trick, and yet he had _hoped_ —

He had hoped Ferdinand was fine.

The sound of the Prime Minister’s body hitting the floor snapped him from his thoughts.

Hubert was at his side as quickly as he could be. He checked his pulse, ensured he hadn’t hit his head. The guard currently posted outside the Prime Minister’s quarters heard the noise; he assisted in moving the body back to the bed.

Hubert left the Prime Minister there, once more unconscious, though likely to be causing trouble again, soon. Edelgard would be awaiting his report.

What would he say?

\------

He had opted for the truth, filled with concerns, suspicions, and all.

“Your Majesty,” he had offered, as he always did. She was still in her chambers, sitting at her desk and addressing personal correspondence, a ritual to prepare herself for the day before she relocated to her office.

“Hubert. What’s happened?”

It took Hubert a moment to speak, his mouth suddenly unable to move, as though it had filled with sand. Eventually, he found the words.

“He’s awake.”

“Oh,” she let out a breath, and her face seemed to light up from where she sat at her desk. “That is a relief to hear—”

“That is not all,” he dared to interject, his body out of breath for a reason he did not care to consider. “He—claims to not remember anything from the past six years.”

“ _What?”_

“He acted as though he hardly recognized me.”

“Then I need to see him,” she said immediately.

“I can’t recommend that, Your Majesty. We still don’t know what possible motivations may be at play. Your safety remains the utmost priority.”

He considered these motivations—if the Prime Minister was lying, was a face-changer that had been battered and bruised to sell a convincing ruse, then claiming _amnesia_ was a shockingly clever ploy. It was no secret that Ferdinand von Aegir was in the Emperor’s good graces now, but that had hardly been the case at the Academy. Not one of the Black Eagles could claim to have been close with him, then—it provided a potential face-changer with plausible deniability. They would not need to know the intricacies of the Prime Minister if they claimed to only have the memories of an airheaded noble schoolboy.

He would have to think on this. As it stood, he could think of little to be done. Some kind of quiz, perhaps—but Ferdinand spoke infrequently about his childhood. There was not much Hubert even knew about to ask.

“Your scouts have not turned up anything?” Edelgard asked after a moment, likely considering the same thing Hubert was. It was not truly a question; if they had, she would know.

“No. They are still searching, my lady.”

“Then we have nothing.”

“As soon as they find something, we will know. Linhardt’s research may yet turn up something useful.”

She took a breath, brushing her hands down her skirts in an effort to smooth them down. “You’re right. We would do well not to despair.”

“It’s possible they haven’t replaced him at all, Your Majesty. Though he has shown no signs of something so drastic as a second crest, that does not mean there isn’t something we’ve missed.”

Optimism didn’t suit him. He tried, for her sake.

“Perhaps this is all they meant to do,” Edelgard suggested. “Take his memories. Throw us into chaos.”

Hubert directed his gaze to the window nearby, observing Enbarr’s skyline for a moment. “I doubt that simple memory loss was their goal,” he stated, unwilling to meet his Emperor’s gaze. “You have seen his body.”

“Still.” He did not see any change her expression made; she came to stand by him, observing the view. “I want to be grateful that, regardless of the circumstance, we have him,” Edelgard said. “I want to be grateful that he is alive and _here_ , rather than yet another price to be paid in our war.”

“We don’t know that,” Hubert whispered.

Against his better judgement, he had considered the scenario several times as sleep evaded him for those long, uncertain days. Fighting into a dungeon of horrors only to find the light that was Ferdinand von Aegir snuffed out, his skin ashy, his body broken, his hair stained and muddied and lifeless. He would have to witness what they’d done to him and accept that he had been powerless to stop them due to sheer ignorance.

 _He screamed for you_ , a particularly vicious part of his mind informed him. _He screamed for you and you did not come._

That was not what had happened. And yet, he could not help but fear there was a layer of truth hidden in his nightmares.

Optimism didn’t suit him. He knew it did not come naturally to his Lady, either.

“I know.” Edelgard took a moment to sigh before she continued. “Then whatever they hoped to accomplish, we must consider a scenario in which they were successful. If he is real, then Ferdinand himself likely does not know what they even did. And if he is not—we will find out, and until then, afford him whatever distance is necessary. As much as it pains me, we _cannot_ afford to grow complacent in the face of everything we have sacrificed to be here. We need more information.”

It was rather like a timer, Hubert supposed. One of them would act first.

“I expect you will not let me down, Hubert.”

“I will not, Your Majesty.”

She turned away from the window to face him, her hand once again finding a place on his upper arm with a hint of hesitation. “You should bring him some tea,” she suggested. “He might like that.”

\------

He brewed nothing right away. Instead, he returned to the Prime Minister’s room, and waited for him to stir once more.

And then, finding that the claims of amnesia remained unchanged—he answered the Prime Minister’s questions. He asked nothing that could have been considered compromising, or confidential, and thus Hubert answered truthfully. It was more of a history lesson, if anything.

Eventually, the Prime Minister asked for tea. Hubert complied.

It occurred to him, while he was brewing the pot, that he should deliberately select a tea he knew Ferdinand did not care for. It would be a test, of sorts—a simple way to catch an imposter in a lie.

And yet.

Lady Edelgard’s words rang in his head—to consider, along with everything else, the possibility that this was real. The Prime Minister was telling the truth, missing six years of memories and thrust into a world completely changed from the one he had known. In that instance, it seemed cruel to prepare something Ferdinand would not enjoy, accompanied by a comment intending to pass it off as his favorite. He would accuse Hubert of lying, perhaps—of playing games. A Ferdinand in possession only of memories from their Academy days would have hardly painted a flattering picture of him, as it was, and Hubert could not yet afford to sow more distrust than would naturally occur.

By the time Hubert returned, tea tray in hand, he found the Prime Minister asleep. He left it on the table, untouched, and penned a letter to Linhardt, requesting his presence in the morning.

\------

Linhardt’s visit provided an acceptable enough distraction. While the healer fretted—or what approximated for fretting, from Linhardt—over his patient, examining injuries that still had not fully healed, Hubert went through the Prime Minister’s desk. It was sorted horribly—Ferdinand failed extravagantly at organizing any of his personal possessions—but Hubert managed. His eyes scanned page after page of correspondence, and he pulled any letter or document that he felt revealed too much about the potential state of the Empire, or even Ferdinand’s personal relations.

Afterwards, he informed the Prime Minister of his invitation to the day’s Imperial Council meeting. He accepted, as Hubert knew he would, before insisting that he most assuredly needed to bathe and make himself presentable.

It stung more than it should have when Ferdinand originally refused to let him assist with his bandages. The loss of intimacy—the desire for a relationship that seemingly no longer existed—felt like an open wound, even as he ran his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair to dry it at the Prime Minister’s request. It did not feel like enough.

On a whim, he had asked him their phrase.

He was unsure of what he’d expected. The Prime Minister had not answered the question incorrectly, the scenario posed to him while Hubert braided strands of hair between his sullied fingertips.

Hubert would not say that his own personal distaste for tea was particularly _unknown_. In truth, there were only a handful of blends he could stand— _ginger_ was not one of them.

Ferdinand did not care for it, either, for a similar reason to why he used to dislike coffee so strongly—and because Ferdinand von Aegir was not allowed to simply _dislike_ something, he had practically made a list of his reasons. He found it too bitter, too pungent, too bold, lacking all of the subtler flavors he typically enjoyed in tea. That, and he disliked how the taste paired with his favorite biscuit—which Hubert suspected was likely to true reason for his distaste, though Ferdinand would never admit it.

However, the Prime Minister had not answered the question correctly, either.

It was something they had agreed upon, when Hubert had first shared the truth about the Agarthan face-changers. Ferdinand had sensed the fear Hubert never dared acknowledge, had latched on to the constant worry that lived just beneath the surface. Ferdinand had come up with this particular question himself, feeling inordinately clever.

“Anyone could discover our tastes in beverages with a little bit research!” he had proudly declared. “But only _you_ will know the proper phrase.”

Hubert had a similar system in place with Lady Edelgard, of course, their own words years old, now, but this agreement with Ferdinand was rather different in its nature. Hubert had never had cause to use it, before now. At the time Ferdinand had concocted it, Hubert proclaimed his doubt that, if a scenario occurred where his identity was ever truly in question, he hardly thought Ferdinand capable of remembering the phrase.

He had said it in jest. Ferdinand had laughed.

\------

The meeting itself was uneventful. He’d observed the Prime Minister’s near-frantic notetaking from across the room, watched him try to put together what events he could. It was clear he wanted to contribute, though he managed to keep his mouth shut—the lie Hubert had concocted regarding the Prime Minister’s lost voice remained unchallenged.

Hubert left the meeting early, much more interested in the report his agent had returned with. They’d found something—an Agarthan base, they thought, not overly far from where Ferdinand’s escort had been slaughtered. It was a small, underground location; they were in the process of monitoring any traffic in and out that they could without being observed. It was not large enough to serve as a base of operations, but it was likely where—

Where Ferdinand had been held. Where he potentially still was.

He informed Her Majesty, and they sat down to discuss the appropriate steps, even as the Prime Minister left the Palace for the first time since his return to have tea with Dorothea Arnault.

\------

The Prime Minister’s outing with Dorothea had been planned ahead of time, of course. The Black Eagles that remained in Enbarr had been warned of the precariousness of the situation, that being careful was a necessity, but they were allowed to meet with him, if they so desired. Dorothea, in particular, was adept at reading people; Hubert wished to hear her observations.

He hoped for her to tell him something definitive. He wanted to know for sure.

The night air was almost cold following the rainstorm and the setting sun, a chill in the air brought on by the evening’s breeze. Hubert did not shiver, but he wondered if the Prime Minister did. The outfit Hubert had chosen for him was not one meant to keep out the wind, and the man was no doubt on his way back to the palace after pastries and tea.

The thought evoked a bitterness he could not name.

Dorothea stood waiting for him on the designated street corner, the cobblestone walkway otherwise abandoned but for the two of them. She was in the process of rubbing her hands along her arms.

“Hubie,” she offered in greeting, the nickname, as ever, strange as it drifted through the air. It was familiar, by now. It was as if Dorothea simply refused to call him anything else—though Hubert had concluded years ago that it was certainly no worse an identifier than his full name.

“You couldn’t have done me a favor and arrived early, like usual?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not.” He’d been rather busy, taking the reports from his spies, recently arrived back from Leicester.

Where they had taken Ferdinand. Where Ferdinand may still have been.

Hubert had been discussing possible courses of action—the primary action, of course, being that they storm the base, kill any Agarthan they found beyond those that could serve a purpose as prisoners, and search for anyone locked away in a cell. Hubert had been planning to leave with them; Her Majesty had thought otherwise. She had ordered— _ordered—_ him to stay put, keep his appointment with Dorothea, and “go get some air,” besides. Afterwards, he was expected to dispatch his agents. And, as ever, remain in the Palace. As if he was no longer allowed to _leave_.

He had heeded the _order_ , for the most part, having walked half of the route to meet Dorothea before warping. Enough to count as getting “fresh air,” but he was not going to waste time.

He kept his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to let Dorothea see the slight tremor in them.

“Well?” he asked.

“Oh no,” Dorothea began. “That’s not how this is going to go. I’m not here to _report_ to you.”

Hubert had imagined very much that this was how it was going to go. Still, he shook his head. “My apologies, Dorothea. It has been… a busy day.”

“I’m sure it has, Hubie, but I would like to make something perfectly clear to you, upfront: I _enjoy_ having tea and pastries with my darling friend Ferdinand.” She crossed her arms, her stern expression clear despite the relative darkness they stood in. “What I do _not_ enjoy is being put up to it like one of your spies.”

He should have known better than to expect this to be easy.

“I take it you learned little of consequence, then.”

She quirked a brow at him, the picture of displeasure. “What I _learned_ is that he doesn’t know how to _cope_ with this, Hubie. He’s terrified of letting you and Edie down. He thinks he’s not fit for his position.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I told him as such! But he still thinks he will have to resign and leave Enbarr. That Edie is just looking for a replacement before she removes him from office. He _cried_ , Hubie.”

“Absurd,” was all he could think to say. Ferdinand von Aegir had thought himself fit for the position of Adrestia’s Prime Minister at the age of eight. To consider _resigning_?

That, itself, was a proposition ridiculous enough to rule him out as a face-changer. And yet, it could have been a tactic. One to kindle sympathy, perhaps. Reassurance that no, of course his position was secure, no one could ever replace _Ferdinand von Aegir_.

“Careful, Hubie,” Dorothea warned. “Someone might accidentally think you have a heart under there, if only you could stop being an ass for five minutes.”

Hubert’s mouth settled into a thin line. “I fail to see how that matters.”

Dorothea looked almost ready to embark on a tirade, to scold Hubert on every way he was wrong, cold, uncaring—instead, she caught herself at the last second, letting the words die with a quick, frustrated sigh.

“I understand this is hard for you, you know. It’s hard for all of us. But with the way things are going—how you’re storming ahead like this? You’re going to say something you’ll regret.”

A pause.

“What did he order?”

_“Flames, Hubie!”_ she cried. “An apple tartlet and Seiros tea. The same thing he always fucking orders! Would you prefer I say he was unrecognizable? That he’s _clearly_ an imposter? Is that what you _want?”_

“Keep your voice down,” he warned. “Of course not.”

“Really? Because you seem determined to act like it.”

“I am simply looking for discrepancies.”

“Hubie,” Dorothea said, her voice still too loud. “You are being paranoid.”

“I am being cautious.”

“That boy doesn’t even remember everything you’ve done together, yet he’s still chosen to think the world of you! You’re going to shatter that trust if you keep going like this.”

“That is assuming he doesn’t shatter mine, first.”

She threw her arms up, a noise of frustration escaping her lips. “He’s feeling isolated right now. Alone. We’re his _friends_ , Hubie—we should be helping him, not making him jump through hoop after hoop to prove himself. He’s smarter than that, you know. He knows something’s wrong, and he thinks it’s his fault.”

Of course Hubert knew that. _Of course_ it hurt him to think about. But he could not—could not—

“They did something to him, Dorothea,” he practically hissed. “Even if he’s real, they did _something_. I have to find out what, and I cannot afford to make a mistake that could put Her Majesty’s life in jeopardy.”

 _Ferdinand_ would understand that.

This earned him yet another sigh; nothing he said seemed to appease her. But surely she was concerned about Lady Edelgard’s safety, as well?

“And to think! I defended you. Told him how sweet you could be.”

“A tactical mistake.”

“… I’m tired, Hubie. I think we’re done here.” She treated him to one final sigh, as if he did nothing but disappoint her.

“I… appreciate your help regardless, Dorothea.” He finally removed his hands from his pockets and rubbed his temples.

“You could try showing it once in a while, you know. And you need to—I don’t know. Take care of yourself.” She paused, though she clearly had more to say. “Have you thought that maybe the simplest answer is the truth, Hubie? Have you thought of that? Because clearly they didn’t _need_ to do anything else to him, really. Just—look at yourself. You’re about to keel over from sleep deprivation just thinking about what they _might_ have done.”

She actually reached out to him, then, taking one of his gloved hands in hers. If she noticed the residual trembling, she said nothing. “I know it’s hard, but we can get through this. Just try not to drive him away too much, yeah?”

“I will… try,” he admitted at last.

Finally, she turned to leave. “And could you please make sure Ferdie eats something? He barely seemed interested in his pastry—and his wounds are still causing him trouble.”

Hubert felt the air shift around him as he warped, once again back in the Imperial Palace.

\------

He knocked at the door to Her Majesty’s office, hand hovering over the doorknob until she offered a quiet “Come in, Hubert.”

“Your Majesty.” Hubert did his best to expel any possible terseness from his voice. She stood from her desk as he entered, moving instead to sit in one of the more comfortable chairs she kept in a section of the room, gesturing for him to sit in the other. He did.

“It’s done, then?” she asked.

Hubert nodded. “They’ve been dispatched to Leicester, on your orders. Forgive me for saying so, Your Majesty, but I should have gone with them.” This was only a matter he could trust himself to conduct—if he could just _convince_ her, there was still time for him to depart and catch his agents.

“No.” The word was swift, immediate, final. “I need you here, now. Your spies are competent, Hubert, and they are careful. They can handle themselves and anything they find—you know this.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

“What would you expect to find, anyways?” Edelgard demanded, sensing his displeasure. “A captive? A corpse? What would be the point of that?”

“I don’t know, Your Majesty.” It felt like an easy answer; this was not a conversation he wished to have.

“Don’t give me that, Hubert—I don’t believe for a second you haven’t thought about what might be down there.” Her eyes narrowed as her hand tightened around the arm of her chair.

“Our reports could be wrong,” he replied. “There might be nothing.”

Silence sat between them for a moment as they observed each other, the words unspoken between them.

“… You still don’t trust him, do you?” Edelgard asked after a time, putting the question to words.

“I find it difficult to—”

It occurred to him, then, that he’d forgotten to silence their conversation to any outside ears—it was a habit he had fallen out of at some point in the past year, knowing at all times the list of people whom would be allowed in this specific area of the Palace at any given moment. It was foolish. Complacent.

The Prime Minister was one of those people.

Hubert stopped himself and stood up from the chair in one swift motion, turning his head to the door where he’d heard the floorboard creak. “Is someone there?”

Footsteps.

Hubert closed the distance, opened the door, watched the figure walk down the hallway.

“Prime Minister,” Hubert called. The man froze. Hubert allowed something more biting to creep into his tone. “Where are you going at this hour?”

“I am returning to my room—” he said, clearly scrambling. “I just finished eating dinner, in the kitchens, and I’m quite tired.” He did not turn around; instead, after a moment, he lowered his head and continued walking. After a few steps, the Prime Minister offered a final, “Goodnight, Hubert.”

Hubert offered no reply. He stepped back into Edelgard’s office and stood by his chair this time, electing not to sit. He cast a silence spell as Edelgard watched him closely, her expression resting somewhere between disappointment and… something unplaceable.

She expected him to speak.

“No,” Hubert said this time, leaving no space for misinterpretation. “I do not trust him.”

He was tired.

\------

Hubert understood, after that, that while he had appropriately considered the potential threat a face-changer within the Palace could pose, he had been far too lenient with the man himself, letting sentimentality cloud his judgement. He would no longer make that mistake.

It stormed in Enbarr for the next three days, and Hubert did not converse with the Prime Minister once. He penned short notes for him, instead, and left them on the tea tray he continued to bring in the mornings.

Or—the tea tray he brought the first day. On the second, he reassigned the task to Fleche, as it was time he could hardly afford to spare from his day. Instead, he met with Lady Edelgard in the mornings, styled her hair, and finalized their schedules for the day as he used to before Ferdinand had inserted himself into his routine. Afterwards, he returned to his office. All of his efforts had been refocused to his work—which he took care of in his office, and his office alone—as he impatiently awaited any news of his agents’ success in Leicester, though he knew they would likely not return for several days yet. He handled matters of state, double-checked budgets, replied to any pertinent correspondence. He woke up at irregular intervals with his head on his desk, papers leaving indents in his face. Coffee remedied that, to an extent, and allowed him to get back to work.

A letter from Lorenz Gloucester inquiring about the Prime Minister’s condition was carefully deflected—even if the situation had not been a matter of state that required a certain level of secrecy and security, Hubert held what could generously be called a personal distaste for the man even on a good day.

A letter from Lord Arundel, vaguely threatening in tone, arrived for him. Hubert read it no less than six times, desperately searching for any hint that the detestable man had known about this plot, orchestrated it, and now sought to gloat. When Hubert could detect nothing of the sort, he unceremoniously burned it. A shame it had gotten lost in the mail, and Hubert had never seen it.

Dorothea tried to force her way into his office on the third day, her hair limp and outfit soaked through. He politely requested she not leave a puddle on his floor and redirected her to Lady Edelgard, neglecting to answer her questions regarding the state of the Prime Minister. That was not to say he didn’t know—Fleche supplied him with regular updates, though nothing had changed. She noted he hadn’t been sleeping, that she had caught him in a nightmare in both mornings, that he barely touched his food, most days. That he’d been raiding the Palace library for books, in an effort to find something to do.

Hubert had promised to visit the stables with the Prime Minister the day it ceased raining, at Lady Edelgard’s request. It was a distraction, yes, but one he could suffer for a time. Worthwhile, if it placated the restlessness of the Prime Minister, otherwise confined to his room.

That was, he had planned to go to the stables—until a knock arrived at his door, and he found someone on the other side he very much wished to speak to.

He invited his agent, Ashlen, inside; he needed to know the results of her mission.

Ferdinand could wait a little longer.

\------

Hubert recoiled as solid wood connected with his face, a hand instinctively shooting up to his nose.

 _“Fuck,”_ he hissed, and as he pulled his hand back and found his glove bloody, he contemplated why he’d possibly thought Ferdinand wouldn’t slam the door in his face after thoroughly screaming at him. A foolish hope, he supposed.

He gritted his teeth as tears began to prick at his eyes, and he felt as though he was eight years old again, mere moments after abjectly failing to cast what should have been a simple spell. His father had been disappointed in him, and Hubert had found it upsetting at the time, moved to tears in what was already an uncharacteristic childish fit for the young Vestra heir. _Crying_ did not suit him.

Even now, the tears only fell because he’d been hit in the face, he reasoned. It was an instinctual response—something he could not control. He tilted his head back as his nose continued to bleed, distantly observing what a rarity it was for his gloves to be stained with his own blood.

 _“How do I know you didn’t do this to me?”_ Ferdinand had asked, demanded, and Hubert had wanted to—he wasn’t sure. Scream, maybe. That yes, he _had_ done this to him, in a way. His spy network, so carefully cultivated, had failed extravagantly, unable to inform him of the danger Ferdinand was walking into the moment he’d left Enbarr. It was Hubert’s war, and Hubert’s decisions, that had caused this.

Ferdinand was right to be angry—Hubert had treated him horridly, though he’d had little choice. As much as it hurt, it had been—perhaps still was—necessary. Nothing was certain—though there was some irony in the fact that the Prime Minister had managed to interrupt the one report that had likely been in the process of proving he _wasn’t_ a face-changer. He should hardly have been surprised; that the future of Fódlan was at stake and Ferdinand could only think of himself was perfectly in character—

 _No, that is unfair_ , he thought, even as he blinked away another tear, willing them to cease. Hubert was not angry—Ferdinand worried over himself and his treatment because it was the only thing he _could_ do. Hubert himself had ensured there was little else for the Prime Minister to dedicate his time to, effectively removing him from any matter of consequence.

And it was clear Ferdinand was utterly exhausted, besides. He had always been one to lose sleep easily, but he had never adapted to sleeplessness as Hubert had. It was not surprising, then, for him to behave as he had. Anyone could say something they didn’t mean when they were tired, or hurt.

Or so he hoped.

Hubert very much wanted to hear the rest of Ashlen’s report. She had ducked from the room at Ferdinand’s… request, but he needed to know how the raid had gone. If they had lost anyone, for which he would have to write yet another letter of condolence expressing a sentiment he could hardly grasp for a war he could not name. If they had found anyone, a corpse or otherwise.

The results she had managed to give him thus far had seemed positive. If they had found Ferdinand—or sign of him—in any form, he was certain she would have reported it upfront.

Ashlen would not have gone far, but he could hardly face her in this state. He needed to wipe off his face, locate a fresh pair of gloves, ensure his eyes did not look as puffy as they currently felt.

He wanted to apologize to Ferdinand. Tell him why he had behaved as he had, inform him that not for a single second in three weeks had his thoughts ever strayed from worry. Explain to Ferdinand that he was crumbling, fraying apart at the edges without him, that Adrestia—Fódlan—needed him, desperately, likely even more than Hubert did. He and Lady Edelgard had done their best, but Ferdinand’s absence was a hurdle nearly insurmountable, bearable for now only because they had originally planned for him to be in Leicester for a little over a month as he finalized his trade agreement.

Hubert wanted desperately to explain this, to fall apart at Ferdinand’s feet and ask for forgiveness as he so rarely did. He was so tired.

But he could not.

There were reports to be read, theories that _needed_ to be confirmed before any such action could be taken. Ferdinand would almost certainly need the time to cool off, besides, having always been prone to—

A quiet knock.

“What?” The word was harsher than he had intended. His face stung.

The shriek he was rewarded with certainly did _not_ belong to his spy.

He opened the door with one hand, still clutching his bloodied nose with the other.

“Bernadetta,” he offered in greeting. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, Hubert, please don’t be mad! But I heard what sounded like fighting and I got worried, and—”

He stepped aside to allow her into the room. “I would be surprised if the entire palace didn’t hear his stomping.”

Only once the door had been closed and Hubert had turned to face her did she seem to finally look at him.

“Hubert, your _nose_!” she screeched, as expected. She was on him in an instant, hands producing a (thankfully, unpoisoned) handkerchief he hadn’t yet thought to use from his pocket. Bernadetta lifted herself up onto her toes and reached up to press the fabric against the blood there. He let her.

“H-here,” she said, “just hold this here until the bleeding stops. I don’t think it’s broken.”

Hubert nodded, as if she were telling him something he didn’t know. He appreciated the effort she made, at least.

She chewed at her lip nervously as she gazed up at him, wide-eyed, until she worked up the courage to speak again. “Did Ferdinand—did he hit you?”

“What?” he blinked. “No, he—I was merely standing too close to the door. It was my own fault.”

This was partially true, he reasoned, and he had deserved it, besides. A bloody nose and some bruised pride were hardly the worst wounds he had ever suffered.

“Oh, well, that’s a relief,” she admitted, the tension in her shoulders loosening. “I didn’t want to have to scold him.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he said. Her willingness to “scold” on his behalf was an interesting thing.

“That’s… good. I wanted to bring him something to try to cheer him up, not… you know.”

There was silence between them for a moment. Hubert provided Bernadetta the time and space she needed to speak; he had learned some time ago how to tell when there was more she still wished to say. He thought briefly to the flower she had made for him, tucked safely away in his desk. If he’d known she was coming, he would have pinned it to his shirt. He hesitated to do so now, if only because he would hate to get blood on it.

“So, uh… what’d you say? To get a door slammed in your face?” she asked at last. Hubert was in the process of sitting back down at his desk, hoping he had remembered to replace the spare set of gloves he kept in one of the drawers.

“Not much,” he admitted. Though what he _had_ said clearly hadn’t been right.

“O-kay?” She seemed to think on the non-answer as she fiddled with a string on her sleeve. Hubert always thought she could have made for a good spy, with a bit more discipline, for how gifted she was at reading people. “So what did you do, then?”

“It is more of what I haven’t done. I believe he’s feeling… neglected.”

No one had come to speak with him in four days. Hubert communicated through short, simple notes, prioritizing efficiency in a manner he thought he could handle. The storms had prevented him from venturing outside. Ferdinand was given no work, no goals, and no explanation in spite of his best efforts—and copious notetaking—at the two council meetings he had attended thus far. Apparently, he had been quite unhappy with the arrangement for those meetings as well, condemned to silence as everyone talked around him. Hubert had thought it a rather clever solution, himself, but then again—Ferdinand did love to talk. He had grown into the role of a natural diplomat. A diplomat could not work if they could not communicate.

And, today, the one scheduled event he had, his visit to the stables, had been cancelled. For good reason, yes—but cancelled all the same. Ferdinand had likely been looking forward to it.

“That sounds like an awfully easy way to say that he’s been alone for the past few days and doesn’t know what to do with himself,” she muttered. “O-or, that is to say, I don’t mean to say it’s your fault! You’ve been super busy, after all, and all of this is so personal for you, and—”

“It’s all right, Bernadetta. Nothing you’ve said is inaccurate.”

“So you just went and put your foot in your mouth, then?”

“Mm.”

“And… Ferdinand was upset and just wanted to yell?”

“You know how he can be.” Ferdinand von Aegir was not an _easy_ person to move to anger, no—but he was passionate, and it could prove… difficult for him to calm down afterwards.

“I was, uhm. Thinking of going to see him.”

“So you said. I’m sure he would appreciate it.”

“So you wouldn’t… mind?”

He raised an eyebrow in her direction and was rewarded with what could only be described as an “eep.”

“I just thought you were worried!” she continued. “That he might be a, you know—”

“I have reason to believe that is not currently the case.”

“Oh, whew! That’s a relief, right?”

Perhaps.

“—still, I would be grateful if you kept your eyes and ears open, and note if anything seems strange. Sometimes you notice things that I don’t, Bernadetta. It’s always good to have another eye.”

If someone had told him previously to confer with someone other than Lady Edelgard, he would have laughed in their face. Now, he found that he relied on the other former Black Eagles for many things, and they were often able to provide insights that he had overlooked.

“Oh, _Hubert_. How many times have I told you I don’t make a good spy?”

“That is not the case, Lady Bernadetta. You are adept at a great many things.”

“… Now you’re just flattering me,” she mumbled.

“Hardly. But I’m not asking as a spy, rather, as a… friend.”

She was quiet for a moment, her eyes on the floor. “It’s good of your to be worried about him, Hubert. Even if you say the wrong things sometimes. And even after he almost broke your nose.”

“… Thank you, Bernadetta.”

Once she was gone, Hubert allowed himself one deep, steadying sigh before he went to find Ashlen.

\------

“We took a prisoner,” Ashlen had reported to him, her hands clasped behind her back. This, in and of itself, was impressive—taking any Agarthan alive was a rarity—though Hubert did not hold out hope they would provide any useful information. “They are being brought back to Enbarr, as per instruction.”

If she had noticed his wounded nose—which she most certainly had, given that she was one of his best—she’d had the sense not to mention it.

“They admitted to having held the Prime Minister, for a time, but nothing more than that. We found no body, though, alive or otherwise.”

“Any others?”

“Yes. Kept in cells. They’re being brought back, as well, but most were not fit for travel.”

What they did with those they rescued was still something being decided as they went—the Emperor and her Hands could never quite agree. Should they be allowed to return home? What if they spoke of their experiences, afterwards?

Regardless, the Empire would provide for them.

“And the Slitherers?” It was not a question. He preferred to use their true name, now that he knew it, but he allowed himself to use the one he had concocted, just this once.

“Dead, sir, except for the prisoner.”

“Good.” And he’d meant it. He wished he could have killed them himself. He may yet have one of the bastards in his grasp, at least.

“One other thing you may be interested in, sir,” Ashlen said. When he raised his eyebrows at her, she reached into her robes and produced something interesting: a pouch.

He stood up from his desk, taking the pouch in hand, and peered inside, finding something that was nothing short of a gift.

Writing. _Pages_ of it.

“I see you’ve saved the best for last, then,” he said. He could have laughed, such a magnificent gift it was.

“As with many things,” she began, “I seem to have picked up your flair for the dramatic.” Though Hubert could not see her face, he knew she smirked beneath her cowl.

“… Sir,” she added as an afterthought. And then, more somberly, “There’s something else in there, as well. I thought it might interest you.” She nodded her head towards some of the pages when he pulled them from their container.

“This was only what we discovered with a cursory investigation,” she said. “Anything that was more hidden will likely arrive later in the night, but rest assured, whatever may have been there did not remain hidden from us.”

“You’ve done well, Ashlen. If there is nothing else, then you are dismissed. Go and inform Her Majesty—she will rest easier knowing the Prime Minister’s identity will likely be confirmed within the day.” The news did not rule out the possibility of a threat—he would have to sift through every one of these pages, first—but they could both breathe more freely with the relative assurance that there was no snake writhing beneath Ferdinand von Aegir’s skin.

“Afterwards, the remainder of the day is your own. You have earned it.”

Her feet came together, and she offered a short, stiff bow. “Sir.”

Hubert did not watch her leave, already redirecting his eyes to the pages before him. As he looked at line after line of foreign writing, he knew he would need his codebooks, his hand-assembled dictionaries. This was feasible, though. This, he could manage.

He had work to do.

\------

Bernadetta returned several hours later, though this time, she did not interrupt, likely having exhausted her desire to socialize for the day. Instead, she slipped a letter underneath his door, informing him that Ferdinand seemed rather unwell, lonely, that he had cut his foot on a broken teacup. She reported nothing out of character—simply that she remained worried for him.

Setting her delicate penmanship aside, he returned to sorting through Agarthan documents once again. As he pulled the last one from Ashlen’s pouch, he noted an object resting along the bottom of the bag. The “something” she had referred to, most likely. He pulled it out, and observed it.

A ribbon, mud-covered and blood-spattered—originally silken and blue in color—sat in his hand, now ruined beyond repair. Taken as a trinket, perhaps. A trophy. A prize.

It was familiar.

When he next looked down at his desk, his hand had clenched violently around the strand of battered fabric.

He stood up from his desk once more. Shoved the ribbon into a pocket.

He needed to speak with Ferdinand.

\------

And yet, he found his room empty.

“Where is he?” Hubert demanded before the guard currently on duty could even speak, his mouth already open.

“He said he was going to see you, sir.” The man wilted beneath Hubert’s gaze. He was no Ashlen.

“ _Clearly,_ that is not the case,”Hubert snapped as he slammed the door closed.

“I—I hope you find him, then, sir,” the guard said. “He did… order me to leave, earlier. I thought I should ask what you wanted me to—”

Hubert had neither time nor patience for this. He turned on his heel, cape billowing. “It sounds as though you should listen to him,” he tossed behind him, face drawn into a frown.

“Sir, you will—you will tell him there are no hard feelings, right? That I was only following your orders?” he called down the hall. Hubert did not bother to answer.

He checked the library, the kitchens, the Prime Minister’s office—still safely locked—and his own—magical wards still safely in place—in case he had somehow simply missed Ferdinand in transit.

And yet, he was nowhere to be found.

Hubert’s heartbeat quickened with each step that failed to reveal the Prime Minister. His thoughts ran alongside it—had he been wrong? Misled? Seen—heard—only what he’d wanted to?

“Hubert? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

He had not even realized he was at Lady Edelgard’s door until he was a foot into her chamber. She sat in her bed, hair loose at her shoulders, one eye obscured as she rubbed at it with a pale hand, her other meeting Hubert’s own.

She was fine.

He let out a shaky breath.

She was fine.

“Hubert?” Edelgard demanded.

He shook his head. “Apologies, Your Majesty, I was just—I was looking for Ferdinand.”

She blinked at him. “And you thought he’d be _here?”_

“I—” he stammered. “No, I just—”

“Hubert.” She raised a hand, her voice still incredulous. “I’m tired. You’re tired. Go get some rest, and perhaps we will both be lucky enough not to remember this in the morning.”

“Your Majesty, I—”

“ _Go,_ Hubert.”

With a hurried bow, he shut the door behind him. Perhaps there had been truth to Dorothea’s claims of paranoia, and yet—

Where had he _gone_? Surely he would not have gone for a _walk_ so late, and if anyone had left the Palace proper, his agents would have told him, so where—

Ah.

_Ah._

\------

Hubert found him in the stables. When he’d first approached, the sight of Pumpkin missing from her stall had once more returned his heart to his throat. Dorothea had recounted Ferdinand’s proposal of leaving Enbarr—had Bernadetta’s mitigation not been enough?

Was he already gone?

Pumpkin would have been the only horse Ferdinand would have recognized in the stables, Hubert knew. Contrary to what one may have expected, the Prime Minister did not currently own many horses. Most of them had been considered part of the Aegir Estate at one point, and had thus been… redistributed, following Lady Edelgard’s ascension to the Imperial throne. Now, Ferdinand had only Lavinia—his third and final warhorse—and Pumpkin, whom he had raised as a child and brought with him to Garreg Mach as a student.

Hubert wished he knew a bit less about the beasts, but Ferdinand loved to talk about them. As such, he listened.

It was a relief, to find him unharmed.

Ferdinand had not left the city—though he had done something equally foolish. He was curled around his horse, eyelids fluttering and limbs shaking from the chill of the night air. Strands of orange clung to his face, as if he’d been crying. Hubert reached out instinctively, brushing a lock of hair aside and coming back with a piece of hay that had become entangled.

Only Ferdinand von Aegir would nearly freeze himself to death because he’d wanted to talk to his horse.

Hubert’s magehorse, Vesper, was stabled here, as well, a stark black mare that Ferdinand had selected especially for him. Hubert had refused to name her, at first, unconcerned with any potential “bond” between beast and rider, and so Ferdinand had taken to calling her—

“Coffee Bean,” Hubert could not help but say aloud when he noticed her watching him. “I expected better of you than to let something like this happen. He could have frozen, and then where would you be?”

She made a noise that may have been displeased. She had always liked Ferdinand more; Hubert could hardly blame her.

Ferdinand purported that it was possible to have entire conversations with the creatures—had once assured him that horses were such intelligent animals that they could surely spot a facechanger in an instant. Hubert had never been—still was not—inclined to give the beasts that much credit.

Hesitant to wake him up, Hubert pried Ferdinand from Pumpkin’s neck, letting him rest momentarily against the nearby wooden wall, instead. When the horse stirred, immediately moving to brush her nose against Ferdinand’s face, Hubert provided her with a reassuring pat before ensuring she was situated properly in her stall.

“He’ll be fine,” he added, running a hand down her nose for good measure.

Returning to Ferdinand, he slipped his arms beneath the man’s limbs and lifted him as gently as he could. Ferdinand was not light, but he was far lighter than he should have been, a clear result of muscular atrophy and malnourishment. This, along with many things, would have to be rectified. For now, allowing him some amount of proper sleep would be enough.

\------

The guard was gone when he returned. Good.

Hubert pushed his way in the Prime Minister’s quarters once more, allowing the body to slip from his arms and onto the bed. He rubbed at his arms, the muscles there already sore from usage—but he hadn’t dropped Ferdinand, at least. He still seemed mostly asleep, in fact, with the small caveat being that he _kept trying to talk_. Ferdinand was adamant, determined to apologize to Hubert for something he didn’t need to, muttering some nonsense about another, grander Ferdinand, one he could only hope to imitate. This was a belief that had gone unmitigated for too long; Hubert hoped to correct him with the truth.

He was trying to apologize, muttering about love letters he’d read and other things—Hubert was just trying to get him to _sleep_.

In spite of this, there was an apology falling from his lips, more sincere than he’d been in days. Hubert meant every word—he only hoped they would coax Ferdinand to let go of the subject, for now, and close his eyes.

It was almost too much for Hubert to understand, this fondness that Ferdinand spoke with. That he would want Hubert anywhere near him just didn’t make _sense_ , given what he could remember of their time at the Academy. Flames, even how Hubert had treated him these past few days would have justified hatred, distrust, a desire to never look upon his face ever again. Ferdinand had been so _angry_ , standing there shouting in his office, absolutely outraged when Hubert had simply stated the obvious and suggested they could no longer be together—

And then Ferdinand grabbed his sleeve and begged him to stay.

“I don’t wish to be alone if the nightmares return,” he’d whispered. “I don’t have anyone else to ask. Please, Hubert.”

Hubert didn’t possess the strength to say no.

It was the first time he’d laid in a bed in three weeks.

\------

Hubert woke only a few hours later, his body surprisingly, stiflingly warm as it registered the presence of another pressed against him. This had not been the position they had begun in—the body, now practically on top of him, had apparently decided to shift substantially during the night.

It was still dark out, though moonlight shone through the curtains of the room—it would be some time before dawn. Hubert made no effort to move.

Instead, he took the time to think, and to examine. Both were actions he’d performed many times over the past few hellish weeks, though they were now colored in a different light.

It was likely he should have taken the opportunity to sleep more. Even Her Majesty had commented on how tired he’d looked continuously over the past week or so—something she only did when she deemed the problem severe enough to be a scoldable offense.

He was still thinking on Ashlen’s report as he stared at the grooves in the Prime Minister’s ceiling, contemplating the success of her mission. Pride stirred in his chest, alongside what must have been relief, but something else lingered there—displeasure, maybe. Dissatisfaction. That all he had left to sort through in the aftermath was one pathetic prisoner and what likely amounted to notebook pages and letters, while enemies whose faces he had never even seen laid dead in their lair. This was _over_ , and he had not cast a single spell. His hands were unfathomably clean.

He could not help but feel that something as simple and straightforward as death was not nearly enough of a consequence for the ones who had tried to take something so very important away from him.

And yet, it would have to suffice. He had not been there to deliver appropriate punishment, and there were fewer liabilities this way. He would have to be satisfied that, among the prisoners and corpses they had found, Ferdinand von Aegir had not been among them, and that his spies had returned with so much written data that they would be busy for days, if not weeks, discerning every detail of the operation they had put a decisive end to.

Several of the documents Ashlen had recovered and returned with were written in code, naturally. Some of them even in one that Hubert had not yet broken. His mind was currently running through the possibilities, even as his head rested on a pillow, even as his hand absently ran through soft orange curls (though they had been softer—someone needed to wash their hair).

Because while he was now fairly certain that the man currently curled onto his chest was actually Ferdinand von Aegir, fairly certain was not completely certain, and what exactly had been done to him in the first place had yet to be determined. It would be impossible—irresponsible—to completely rule out the possibility of a threat until he was in possession of all the facts.

Ashlen had mentioned there would be more for him to examine later tonight. Absolutely everything needed to be examined.

He should be doing it right now, should have been back in his office working by candlelight for as long as it took. If he was still there when the sun began to drift through the cracks of his perpetually-closed curtains (yes, indeed, they only ever seemed to be drawn to allow in the daylight in the event that a particularly obstinate Prime Minister had come to demand he abandon his work), then it was only evidence that he needed to work harder.

And yet he was not in his office. Somehow, despite all better judgement, he’d been convinced to lay once more in the Prime Minister’s bed, a return to a semblance of routine in the strangest of ways, serenaded only by the soft, steady breaths of someone Hubert currently presumed to be Ferdinand himself.

This had not been his intention, but it had taken very little persuading to coax him to this point. Shockingly little, in fact. His resolve had crumpled the moment the plea had left the man’s mouth, his words slurred with sleep and unmistakably honest in their intention.

Such was the power that was Ferdinand, that he could so easily stumble into reminding Hubert just how much he had longed to hold him.

\------

Hubert knew that Ferdinand was dreaming.

It began with small indications—the slight way with which he turned his head, how his fingers stretched at the cloth of Hubert’s shirt, the slight hitches in his breaths. Hubert observed him closely—he had certainly not forgotten Ferdinand’s hastily-described fear of nightmares, and yet he was hesitant to wake him up, to deprive him of the sleep he very much needed.

Hubert also knew that Ferdinand was no stranger to nightmares. It had not been something he’d personally known about until they had become intimate after the war, but Hubert suspected they had begun long before that. It was sometimes difficult to pry the details from his lips—Ferdinand von Aegir could be infuriatingly private at times, obsessed with covering up anything that could be perceived as a weakness—but he knew Ferdinand dreamed of the war, of the lives he had taken, of the rain at Tailtean, of the burning of Fhirdiad. It was obvious in the way he sometimes cried out, the way he woke up trembling, the way his breathing would do something funny and he would clutch at Hubert for dear life, burying his face in the crook of Hubert’s shoulder. Hubert had held him in return, running his hands through Ferdinand’s hair and along his back until the shaking stopped, his heartbeat steadied, his breaths evened, and for some time after that still.

The war had affected Hubert, too, albeit in different ways. He, too, was loath to ever admit to it. When his own incidents occurred, when his senses clouded and his body refused to move and words refused to form, Ferdinand had taken to singing to him. Hubert would have condemned it as belittling, childish, when it had first happened, had he been in any state to do so—or, perhaps, if Ferdinand’s voice had not sounded quite so nice.

Hubert wondered what it was Ferdinand dreamed about now.

Was it still a recollection of the battlefield? Of the blood that stained his hands, the feeling of striking down a familiar face? Did he dream of Hubert, who had been by his side for those long years?

Did those memories still exist, floating to the surface of his subconscious? Would he remember them when he woke?

Hubert did not hold out hope.

He watched the frown on Ferdinand’s face deepen as his eyes fluttered, his head turning closer to Hubert’s chest as he made a strangled noise. Intending to rouse him only as much as strictly necessary, Hubert put a hand on his shoulder, and, keeping his voice low, called out his name. If he could rescue him from this, perhaps it would make up for the times he had failed to help him over the past four days, ignoring his tossing and turning in favor of setting down a tea tray and fleeing the room. He hadn’t even managed to do _that_ more than one day—he had pawned the task off on Fleche.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert said, firmer, but it didn’t seem to help. If anything, he fought harder, attempting to writhe his way out of Hubert’s grasp.

“Ferdinand, you’re dreaming,” he tried again. He managed to slip out from underneath the heavier man’s form and sat up, reaching out once more to shake him a bit harder.

It worked.

Or at least, it seemed to.

Ferdinand’s eyes opened, but it was not in relief. They were wide, surprised, panicked— _frightened,_ he realized. Fear was not an emotion Hubert ascribed to Ferdinand von Aegir—even when he had woken up in a strange bed with no idea how he had gotten there and no recent memory to speak of, he had been _panicked_ , but not afraid—and it was not an emotion he ever wanted to see on his face again.

It should not have been a reaction that shocked Hubert; of course it would be frightening to wake up from a dream only to find the ghastly Hubert von Vestra in your bed. He would explain his reasons for being here, would encourage Ferdinand to return to sleep, and once he had settled, Hubert would slip from the room and try to put this mistake out of his mind. He should not have been here to begin with, should not have listened to Ferdinand, regardless of his tired pleas. It was far too soon for him to even _consider_ being here; he did not even know—

Ferdinand was fighting him.

“Ferdi—”

“No—” Ferdinand sputtered as his hands found further purchase on Hubert’s arms and chest. _“Get off me!”_

He was trying to keep Hubert away, but his efforts were frantic, uncoordinated, and there was nowhere for either of them to go—unless Ferdinand decided to fling either himself or Hubert from the bed, which was seeming a likelier option by the second.

“You aren’t—you aren’t real, you _aren’t_ , and I—”

“Ferdinand, _please_ , let me—” Hubert attempted, tried to put his arms up in some form of defense. He could understand Ferdinand’s surprise, but he hoped to keep him from hurting himself, if he could.

The unfortunate thing about Ferdinand von Aegir in this moment, was that, even with all that had happened to him, he was still much stronger than Hubert.

He found that strength again as his hands came up to properly grasp Hubert’s arms, and he _pushed_.

Hubert’s head hit the pillow as Ferdinand rolled over to pin him, eyes wild and breaths heavy as the ends of his hair tickled at Hubert’s face. Hubert simply gazed upwards, his mouth somewhat agape and body out of breath.

“I won’t let you—” Ferdinand tried to say. “I won’t let you—”

His voice grew quieter as he spoke, less frenzied, as if he no longer possessed the energy—or enough air in his lungs—to finish the statement. He shook his head slightly as his eyes widened once more from beneath strands of orange, and he blinked at Hubert owlishly, as if he were only now seeing him in full.

“H-Hubert?”

“Ferdinand,” came the tentative response. The man still looked surprised to see him, but it was… different.

Ferdinand’s grip loosened. He pulled away, sat back on his knees. Hubert watched him for a moment—watched as his hands trembled—and tried to follow suit, despite the now rather awkward tangle of limbs and bedsheets.

“I did not mean to frighten you,” Hubert began. “You asked me to stay here, but I should not have—”

“It is really you,” Ferdinand breathed, as though he were completely disinterested in Hubert’s explanation. Instead, he looked almost… relieved.

What did that _mean?_ Had he remembered something?

Had Ferdinand remembered _him_?

Before Hubert could begin to formulate a response, Ferdinand fell forwards in a mess of hair, his arms wrapping around Hubert’s shoulders in a death grip, his face finding the crook of Hubert’s neck in the process.

“It is really you,” he repeated.

It was familiar. Hubert did not know what to do.

When Ferdinand made no immediate attempt to remove himself—gave no indication that he regretted his actions—Hubert slowly brought his arms up to return the embrace, holding Ferdinand’s shaking body close to his own.

He was unsure what to make of Ferdinand’s words—then again, dreams were always odd, unpredictable, and Hubert was certain it was neither the first nor last time he would be the object of someone’s nightmares.

“Yes, it’s me,” he offered. “You asked me to stay with you. Do you remember?”

Ferdinand made a small noise of affirmation.

With a bit too much hope, Hubert asked the only possible follow-up question, his voice quiet: “Did you remember anything else?”

The answer was quick—Ferdinand shook his head, a resounding no, and Hubert could not help the way his heart fell, even as Ferdinand’s arms tightened around him further, as if he were disappointed in himself for something completely out of his control. Against what was perhaps his better judgement, Hubert ran a tentative hand through Ferdinand’s tangled hair. He meant it to be comforting, though he did not know if he succeeded—this was not Ferdinand’s fault. It had never been his fault.

Ferdinand did not pull away.

They stayed like this for a time, neither one willing to split from the other.

“It was only a dream,” Hubert continued after a while, when he was certain the worst of the tremors had passed. “You will feel better in the morning if you go back to sleep.”

Ferdinand nodded weakly against his shoulder. He seemed to have calmed, at least, no longer gasping for breath—perhaps he would be able to drift back to sleep with relative ease, and Hubert would slink from the bed after Ferdinand’s eyes closed as he had planned, to ensure Ferdinand would not wake up with such a stranger in his bed a second time.

Ferdinand lifted his head up, meeting Hubert’s eyes. He was no longer frantic—and clearly exhausted—but he still looked… uncertain.

“All right. But Hubert, I—I need to tell you—”

“Peace, Ferdinand. Whatever it is, we can discuss it in the morning. Will you please just lay down?”

He bit at his lip and nodded, trying to shift his limbs into a more comfortable position, even as the action of closing his mouth seemed to physically pain him. The silence did not last for long, however—he continued to argue on the way down. Ferdinand was still Ferdinand.

“But you are not listening to me, Hubert,” he mumbled, his complaint heavy and half-absorbed by the pillow his face now rested on.

“You need to know that I did not—I did not tell them anything.”

Hubert’s mind immediately jumped to what that could mean, but surely it wasn’t—

Surely whatever it was not as important as Ferdinand thought. _“They”_ could be absolutely anybody; after all, Ferdinand was tired, and scattered, and he needed _sleep_ right nowmore than anything else.

“In the morning, Ferdinand.”

There was a hint of frustration laced within the sigh that followed, but Ferdinand did not argue further. Instead, he attempted to pull the wrinkled bedsheet back over himself, and he forced his eyes shut. Hubert watched him carefully until the tension sank from his shoulders and the rise and fall of his chest was once more even and steady. Hopefully the nightmares would bother him no further.

Hubert was then left to consider the implications of Ferdinand’s words. He had planned to leave—he still thought he should. But Ferdinand had not asked him to go, and, as much as Hubert hoped otherwise, what if another nightmare _were_ to set in? There would be no one here to stop it. No one here to reassure him, calm him, hold him, even as poor as Hubert likely was at the job. It would not be fair.

And there was one other thing that bothered him, ate away at the edges of his thoughts, even as he tried to consider absolutely anything else—

What had Ferdinand dreamed about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!! I'm sorry it's been over two months since I've updated--the contract for my job was renewed back in May, so I've been extra busy--but hopefully an extra long chapter filled with Hubert's suffering makes up for it! 
> 
> First of all, a MASSIVE thank you to [@hausofthestars](https://twitter.com/hausofthestars) for the art in this chapter [(x)](https://twitter.com/hausofthestars/status/1284251891111690241?s=20)!! I haven't been able to stop looking at it and it's absolutely the reason I actually managed to finish this chapter this week.
> 
> Second, even more thank yous to Lily, Alexz, [Nuanta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nuanta/pseuds/Nuanta), [GoldenThreads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenThreads/pseuds/GoldenThreads), and [SIGF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SIGF/pseuds/SIGF) for reading over the various states of my drafts and just being altogether very nice to me 💜 Bonus kudos go to Nuanta for letting me borrow Ashlen as a character, because I love her.
> 
> THIRDLY, I've continued to get so much amazing feedback for this story, and I'm really so, so grateful. I received two pieces of stunning fanart since I last updated, so please look at them and appreciate them as much as I do!  
> [@PhantomR_art's](https://twitter.com/PhantomR_art) jaw-dropping piece, which can be found [here!!](https://twitter.com/PhantomR_art/status/1265554468998991873)  
> [@miaoulovania's](https://www.instagram.com/miaoulovania/) lovely piece, which can be found [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CB4JdmsDXtz/?igshid=vmz4lt5w05lh) on the fourth slide!  
> I'm also going to keep linking [@stinkl1ng's](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng) incredible art that I commissioned, because I still love it!! Check it out [here!](https://twitter.com/stinkl1ng/status/1247906158997897216)  
> Edit: Also look at [THIS](https://twitter.com/owlthepen/status/1294317291006377984?s=20) absolutely wonderful piece for Chapter 1 by [@owlthepen!!!](https://twitter.com/owlthepen)
> 
> And finally, I can be found on Twitter [@celestial_tart](https://twitter.com/celestial_tart), where I occasionally comment on how slow I am at writing! Hopefully the next chapter will be out a bit quicker next time (likely because it cannot possibly be any longer than this one) 😁


End file.
